


I'm Feeling Fine, Kid

by maximum_overboner



Series: The Exchange [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Big Brother Papyrus, Big Brother Sans, Canon Divergence, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sans and Papyrus have some ISSUES, character exploration, dark themes, gender neutral frisk, sans tries his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 45
Words: 92,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5170061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximum_overboner/pseuds/maximum_overboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sans gets drunk, unable to deal with the constant stress of resets, setting in motion a series of events that would change his life. Papyrus, kind, steadfast and determined, does everything in his power to support him. Everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rippling Musculature

**Author's Note:**

> Sans really doesn't strike me as very happy. More chapters to be added!

Sans needed to get out of his room for a bit, to do... He didn't know. Something. He could only lie in his bed for so long before guilt would gnaw at the pit of his ribs, and eventually force him downstairs. Usually Papyrus would be there to greet him with a warm hug and a scolding. 'LAZY!' this and 'WASTEFUL!' that. It made Sans feel better, if only for a little while. It came from a place of love. Sincere, unfettered love. The fact the tirades were based on misunderstanding didn't matter. But there was no hug. In fact, there was no Papyrus.

Sans slowly came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. Hold on, where was he? He scanned the room from right to left before his vision settled on the crisp of paper laid on the middle of the couch, folded precisely. It had a hastily scrawled picture of Papyrus holding his arms outstretched for a hug on the outside. Sans squinted. Papyrus had given his drawing rippling musculature and surrounded it with stick-figure admirers.

A warm pang ran through Sans as he opened the note.

'DEAR BROTHER, I AM PATROLLING WITH THE HUMAN TODAY. AFTER ALL, IF I DON'T SHOW THEM HOW HARD I WORK, HOW CAN THEY GRASP HOW GREAT I AM? THERE'S SPAGHETTI IN THE FRIDGE, PLEASE TRY AND EAT IT. OR AT LEAST DON'T THROW IT AWAY THIS TIME!! - YOUR COOL AND AMAZING BROTHER, PAPYRUS'

Sans had the whole house to himself, it seemed. No distractions. Just the skeleton and his thoughts. He sighed as he fell onto the couch, taking the time to fold up the note and put it in his pocket before he did so. There were two things he could do. He could go to Grillby's, chat with the patrons and do his best to distract himself from his problems. Or he could stay at home, ruminate, really cut to the core of why he was feeling...

Sans furrowed his brow. Well, not feeling very much. Even the thought stung at the corner of his eyes, and before he could think he had pulled on his jacket and walked out the door.


	2. Opposites

  Sans pat the seat next to him at the bar languidly, "hop up, kid. whaddya want to eat?"  

  Frisk clambered up, turned to Sans and shook their head.

  "fair enough. papyrus made you eat the spaghetti, right?"  

  The way Frisks' face scrunched up elicited a bark of laughter from Sans, catching him off guard. "yeah, i had guessed as much." 

  The bar reeked of cigarette smoke and alcohol, the atmosphere heavy with laughter and intoxicants. It wasn't busy, the snow outside had changed from delicate flakes to slabs of hail, and nothing put people off like the idea of being trapped in a building with a man that was literally on fire. But there were always the regulars. 

  "not to sound like a huge..." he caught himself before he swore, remembering the company, "...mean dude, but shouldn't you be at my place? you can sleep on the couch. bone-doggle a little."

  Frisk shook their head emphatically, reminding Sans that they had spent the past five hours with Papyrus patrolling.

  "need a break from my bro? sure, i get that." Sans took a swig from the bottle he had in front of him, wincing as it burned his conjured tongue. "he can be pretty enthusiastic. but y'know..." he took an even longer drink, cheeks starting to flush as the alcohol worked its way through him. "it's admirable. he's a really cool guy." It had been a while since he had done this.

  Frisk shifted in the chair. They got the feeling they were going to be talked at, rather than talked to.

  "it's hard to believe we're brothers sometimes, right? i mean, we're like total opposites." His bottle was empty, but he still grasped it as if it would spill at any second. The voice that reverberated out of the base of his static skull slurred as he continued. "i'm really lucky, y'know? he's so driven, he's got such passion for life, and cooking, and..." Sans made a vague waving gesture with his empty hand, "whatever shit he sets his mind to, i guess".

  Frisk winced a little at the language, and Sans widened his eyes.

  "ah, shit, sorry kid, i got a little carried away." There was a brief pause before Sans swiftly brought his hand up to pinch his nasal bones and forced out a low chuckle. "wow, i really gotta think before i speak."

  "You were talking about Papyrus." Frisk gently said, voice barely audible, "and how you were opposites."

  "yeah, yeah, that was it." The pinpricks of light returned to Sans eyes. He hadn't even noticed. "he-"

  "Papyrus is _happy_."

  Sans turned away to face the front of the bar, sockets empty and voice flat. "yeah. yeah he is."

  The kid was more astute than they let on, he thought.  
  



	3. Buzzed

  "Can you come down here?" 

  There was a pause of consideration. "OF COURSE I COULD! BUT DO WE REALLY HAVE TO MEET IN..." a loud sigh rang out from the end of the receiver, "GRILLBY'S?" 

  Frisk peeped their head around the far corner of the bar, making sure not to clatter the phone against the surface. Sans was still there, the faint lights of his eyes bleary with cheap alchohol, brows knit. Tired.

  "It's Sans. He's been drinking."

  A heavy pause hung in the air. "OH. I SEE." Papyrus' voice was strained, and as cold as the hail that was battering the windows. "I WILL BE THERE." Before Frisk could answer, Papyrus had hung up.

  Frisk took a deep breath, then began the short walk back to the bar stool, dipping and dodging through crowd until finally coming to a stop next to the skeleton. His arms hung loose on the counter, one sleeve haphazardly rolled up on his hoodie. It had been like that for half an hour, but he hadn't bothered to fix it. Even slumping seemed like too much effort.

  Sans lolled his head around to look at Frisk, straightening himself up and widening his grin. "kid." He stuck out a finger, and prodded Frisk clumsily on the forehead, much too hard to be intentional, "your bathroom break lasted forever. you feeling ok?" 

  A pang of guilt ran through Frisk. They had assumed that cutting straight through to the point would help Sans. He wasn't happy. Frisk knew he wasn't happy. But when your face is permanently stuck in a grin, it's easy to fake. His shoulders would slump when he sat at his post and his gaze would drift off, never finding anything. When they would all curl up in front of the television at night, he would chuckle low and flatly, always laughing when he was supposed to. Papyrus would worry otherwise. So whipping back the obfuscation would help, right? Cut straight through the bullshit, then you can say what you really want. His slow tumble into drink over the course of the night would come to a skidding halt, and they could talk it out. It had worked with everyone else.

  It did not go as planned. He doubled down, had overshot 'comfortably buzzed' and landed on 'plastered' an hour ago. And when Frisk would try to guide him back on topic he would do his best to smile wider, and brush them off.

  Frisk stopped once he started to look manic.

  They nodded at Sans and resumed their place at bar. "Sorry about that. I had something important to do."

"gross."

  Frisk went to raise their arms in protest, nose crinkling, before being cut off by a throaty cackle. It almost sounded sincere. "i'm just fucking with you."

  A silence settled on them both.

  "So." Frisk said, tugging at loose thread at the base of their sweater. "What's up with you anyway?" One last try, then that would be it.

  Another silence, this time weighed down with grim anticipation.

  "how long have you got?"  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for Papyrus to show up next chapter? 'Not Sans', is the answer.


	4. Cold Wind

  "it's just..."

  He was never good at this. Sans would watch as sincerity would tumble out of Papyrus at every opportunity, and be a little envious. No puns, no jokes. No hiding.

  "do you ever get the feeling..." Sans began clumsily wringing his hands, phalanges rattling against each other with every small motion. "that there just isn't much..." He bobbed his foot on the bar-stool rest.

  Frisk leaned closer, expectantly.

  "point? to anything?" His eyes burned, and he wasn't sure if it was the alcohol.

  Frisk let the words wash over them, then sat back up, deliberately, slowly. They would need to be careful.

  "Honestly? No." And as Sans face began to fall, they continued. "But I have a goal to work towards." A purpose, even if forced upon you, is still a purpose. "I'll get everyone to the surface, you'll see. I'll make everyone happy." For the first time that night, Frisk smiled back, warm and enduring. "What do you have?"

  "i have papyrus." He said, plainly.

  "Well, yeah. But what else?"

  There was a brief lull before Sans looked Frisk in the eyes. The blackness of his sockets always took them by surprise, completely empty save for two pinpricks of light that were suspended in the middle.

  "i got you, kid."

  Frisk hadn't expected that.

  "you're a good friend," he continued, before chuckling darkly. "even if you are a little reset-happy."

  Frisk felt their stomach bottom out. He knew.

  They barely registered the sound of the door opening and quick, thudding footsteps before being rushed back to their senses by the blast of cold wind that followed.

  A gloved hand landed firmly on Sans' shoulder, before grasping and spinning him around.

  "geez dude, get your hands off-"

  "YOU PROMISED ME, SANS."

  Sans' eyes widened, and he felt his throat clamp shut.

  "WHEN WE CAME HERE," Papyrus choked, voice as even as he could make it, "YOU PROMISED ME YOU WOULDN'T DO THIS ANYMORE." Papyrus gestured towards the empty bottles. His figure loomed over the stool, shoulders taught with-

  Frisk squinted.

  Was that rage?

  The low chatter of the other patrons died down to heavy silence, thick with awkwardness. Grillby had decided it would be best to go and finish cleaning the glasses on the opposite end of the counter. None of them had seen Papyrus angry, so any smart comments had died with the atmosphere.

  Sans sat slumped in his chair, averting his eyes. "yeah." There was no saving this one. When they had moved to Snowdin, Sans swore he would. "yeah, i did. i'm sorry."

  Sans slammed his eyes shut and braced himself for the bellowing, but it never came. When he slowly opened them again, Papyrus was gritting his teeth, willing the tears welling in the corners of his sockets to wait.

  "I AM SO DISAPPOINTED IN YOU."

  Anger, Sans could deal with.

  This, he could not.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blasting 'Year of Silence' by Crystal Castles on repeat whilst writing is not conducive to happy fanfiction, it seems.
> 
> Thank you for the comments and kudos! It all means the world to me, especially since I haven't been writing for very long. I hope you enjoyed the previous chapters, and I hope you enjoy future ones! ^-^


	5. Bitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word of warning, this chapter is kinda heavy...

  Papyrus had a speech planned. A grand, empowering gesture of affection that would make Sans see himself the way Papyrus did, stop drinking, and reapply as Assistant to the Royal Scientist in one fell swoop. A flawless expression of care that would be unmatched in its execution. He was certain.

  It fell apart as soon as his boot hit the dull wood of the floor, and Papyrus saw his brother perched on ragged bar stool next to Frisk, slouching and drunk and _selfish_. Sans had so much potential, there was so much he could do. Anger trickled through Papyrus, through the fine cracks in his bones. It was bitter and unfamiliar.

  He hated every second of it.

  And he hated what it made him do.

  "I TRY HARD, SANS. I TRY EVERY DAY TO GET YOU UP, TO GET YOU TO DO SOMETHING, AND EVERYDAY IT'S ALWAYS THE SAME! THIS ISN'T NORMAL! _YOU_ ARE NOT NORMAL. DO YOU NOT CARE AT ALL? DO YOU NOT CARE ABOUT YOURSELF? DO YOU NOT CARE ABOUT ME?" Papyrus was gesturing wildly with his arms, fists clenched.

  Sans felt the pit in his stomach grow, but didn't interrupt. This was his fault.

  "YOU HAVE SO MUCH GOING FOR YOU, AND YOU JUST SIT THERE, BEING _USELESS!_ "

  The word rang out across the room, reverberating faintly through the silence. After that, there was only Papyrus' ragged breathing and the barely-there sound of his bones creaking with every movement.

  Sans wrung his hands tightly, to the point where it hurt, then wrung tighter still.

  He looked up at Papyrus, and mumbled something that he couldn't make out. A sputtering of garbled consonants. It was going to be a stupid pun, he just knew it. He wasn't in the mood to play along.

  "WHAT?"

  Sans took in a shaky breath, and tried again.

  "i'm sorry. i love you, pap."

  The rage left as quickly as it came, leaving a vacuum. The tightness in his chest grew, rushing to fill it, and before Papyrus knew it he was crying. Fat, baleful sobs racked his entire frame, shaking every part of him. "I LOVE YOU TOO, SANS. BUT-" He was hiccuping.

  He still cried the same way as he did when he was a child, the analytical part of Sans noticed. He wished he hadn't.

  "Y-YOU PROMISED ME! YOU P-PROMISED ME, BUT YOU'RE HERE-" Papyrus brought his gloves up to his eyes to mop up the tears, but only succeeded in spreading them across his face, straight into his nose and mouth. "I CAN SEE HOW GREAT I AM! S-SO WHY CAN'T YOU SEE HOW GREAT YOU ARE? I JUST-" Papyrus hunched over and clenched Sans' shoulders tightly, shaking him. "I DON'T UNDERSTAND." His head fell onto Sans' shoulder, and he wept.

  Frisk had sat there the whole time, dumbstruck.

  Papyrus was sobbing into Sans' jacket as everyone at the bar stared.

  Sans wanted to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will get more cheerful eventually, I swear! Thanks for reading!


	6. Babybones

  "c'mon pap. lets just go."

  Papyrus slowly pulled his face up from the crook of Sans' jacket, the fog in his mind dissipating. Reality hit him.

  He had just stormed into a bar and dramatically revealed his brothers deepest problems like he was unveiling a prize on a gameshow, in front of the half the town. Papyrus tentatively looked to the rest of the bar. Maybe they hadn't noticed?

  No, no they had. Who wouldn't have? He was loud even at his most composed.

  Papyrus felt his cheeks burn. Everyone would know by tomorrow. Everyone would know what he had done. Everyone would know that he trusted Sans to come here and simply eat the food.

  Everyone would know what a terrible brother he was.

  Sans picked up on his train of thought immediately. "don't worry about it pap. lets just..." He choked back a sniffle. His shoulder felt damp.

  "...c'mon... please..."

  Papyrus dully noted that Frisk had yet to close their jaw.

  "RIGHT. OF COURSE."   

  Sans slowly climbed down from the stool, inch by inch, his feet gracelessly thudding against the wood of the floor. He went to take his first step, when he felt the ground slip from underneath him, his whole body careening-

  Papyrus, on instinct, looped his long arm around his torso and prompted Sans to lean on him. It was easier to walk this way.

  "thanks."

  "DON'T MENTION IT." The tears were still coming, but in a steady trickle instead of a deluge. He could speak, at least.

  Frisk awkwardly scratched at the nape of their neck. When they made the call, they had assumed that Papyrus would show up, Sans would grumble, go home and sleep it off. Then they would all go get nice-cream and laugh about it. Job done. Friend helped. But it had gone a little past the point of nice-cream.

  "I'll stay in the Inn tonight, if you both want some space." It was the least they could do. Every attempt to help had made things exponentially worse.

  Frisk braced themselves when Sans slowly turned his head to face them. He would be angry. He would be angry, and there were only two people he could take it out on, because Papyrus would be out of the question.

  His features were soft. "this ain't your fault. no point in you paying an arm and a leg at that place. c'mon."

  Frisk looked to Papyrus.

  He nodded sharply. " YOU WILL ALWAYS BE WELCOME. THAT WILL NEVER CHANGE." His arm shook from the strain of holding up Sans, but he held out.

  Sans pushed his weight towards the door, Papyrus taking the hint and walking with him. Frisk quickly followed suit.

  "lets go before anybody else sees us crying like babybones."

  Papyrus felt an angry comment rise in his throat, but squashed it down. It had been a rough night, he could indulge Sans a little. They could pretend they were at the sentry post at Snowdin, if only for a few seconds. Where nothing mattered. Where nothing hurt.

  "BABYBONES? I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW I'M A VERY MATURE SKELETON WHO JUST _HAPPENS_ TO BE CRYING LIKE AN INFANT."

  Sans laughed, properly laughed, for the first time in what felt like years. His body shook underneath Papyrus.

  Papyrus, eyes bleary and choked with tears, smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus has finally managed to drag Sans out of Grillby's before Frisk does something else to ruin the night! Now it's time for the walk home...
> 
> A few people mentioned crying at the last chapter, so I did my best to lighten this one up a little. Thanks for your support!


	7. Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt the previous, happier chapter to bring you more sadness. Enjoy!

The hail had abated, sleet taking its place. The crisp snow that dusted the ground became a slush, which hid ice underneath. It would be a long walk back to the house.

  They all moved slowly together, one foot in front of the other, in silence. Not a comfortable silence that comes with years of fond company, the kind they were used to. A silence of grim acceptance. The things that had happened were real.

  Frisk looked up at the brothers as they walked, arms hooked around each others shoulders. Sans could barely stand, never mind walk in these conditions. Papyrus looked blank. A thought wriggled to front of their mind.

  How many times had this happened?

  Frisk tugged lightly on the corner of Sans' hoodie, who turned slightly. Papyrus continued trudging on.

  "Talk. _Please._ " Frisk mouthed, subtly slowing the pace of their steps.

  Sans, being unable to mouth back, nodded weakly.

  In the thirty seconds that followed, Frisk stopped walking entirely. They simply watched the brothers advance on, Papyrus completely unaware. Frisk could go do something else for a while.

  But all they had were each other.

  Thoughts began swimming through Sans' mind. He had to say something. Putting what had happened right was out of the question. He had to say something. When they had moved from the Capital, it was with a vow that everything would change for the better. _He had to say something_.

  Papyrus spoke first, grabbing Sans and pulling him out of his ruminations.

  "I DON'T EVEN LIKE SPAGHETTI."

  Before Sans could process the statement, Papyrus went on.

  "I ONLY MADE IT BECAUSE UNDYNE TOLD ME TO, OVER AND OVER AGAIN UNTIL I GOT IT JUST RIGHT." The sleet pelted his face, sticking to the back of his eye sockets before slowly trickling out through the very fine cracks in his skull. It made him feel like he was drowning. "I WOULD HAVE NEVER MADE IT AGAIN." He craned his neck to look Sans in the eye, his long body straining to keep him up and lumbering.

  "BUT YOU ALWAYS SMILED WHEN YOU ATE IT!"

  "i always smile," he slurred.

  "NO, YOU DON'T. NOT REALLY." Papyrus pushed up the corners of his cheeks in a crude mimicry of Sans' permanent grin with his free hand. "YOUR FACE BEING STUCK LIKE THIS ISN'T SMILING. THAT'S JUST YOU." He dropped his hand, and allowed his features to settle into place again. "YOUR EYES CHANGE. AND WHEN I NOTICED, I REALIZED."

  Sans quirked an eyebrow. "realized what?"

  "I HADN'T SEEN YOU REALLY SMILE IN YEARS."

  Sans felt like he'd been punched in the gut. It was all out there, Papyrus wasn't an idiot. So why did he have such a hard time just... Talking? Like a normal person.

  "EVEN ON THE DAY YOU GRADUATED YOU DIDN'T." Papyrus felt a tinge of warmth, and it only served to remind him how cold Snowdin was at night. " _DR_ SANS! I WAS SO PROUD." His arm was shuddering, feeling heavier by the second, his neck being pulled unintentionally by Sans' arm like an anchor catching a rock. "I AM STILL PROUD," he said softly. "SO I THOUGHT, IF MY COOKING COULD MAKE YOU HAPPY THEN I WOULD NEVER STOP. BUT IT WASN'T ENOUGH." Papyrus might have been crying again, but the weather made it difficult to tell. "I'M SORRY."

  "you shouldn't be the one apologizing." Sans thought about bolting and throwing himself into the lake, letting the jagged rocks grind him into dust. He didn't want to, but at the same time, he did. "i was the one who fucked up. not you." His feet were dragging.

  He looked up Papyrus' tired, tired face and pressed on with renewed vigor.

  " _never_ you."

  "WHY DO YOU DO IT?" Papyrus blurted.

  They came to a grinding halt.

  "WHY DO YOU DRINK?"

  Sans paused, feeling something bubbling up from the pit of him. He was weeping. He didn't know when he had started, and he wasn't sure when he was going to stop.

  "it makes me forget that i..." Thoughts of the lake flashed in his mind.

  "that i want to give up. everything."

  Papyrus ducked down in a flash and pressed him tightly to his chest, out of love and primal fear.

  Sans hugged him back as best he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your comments and support! I'm actually really flattered, I didn't think this would get any attention at all.


	8. Fondness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The relationship Sans and Papyrus have is my fave, so I hope I do it justice.

  It was in Papyrus' nature to help people. Even when he was a child, with soft bones and wide eyes, he would try. He had that luxury, to be unfettered, idealistic in a world that would take advantage of him.  

  He remembered reading pieced-together storybooks that Sans would find, sometimes in the street, sometimes in the garbage. Never fully intact. But Sans would do his best, taping and writing, taping then re-writing until Papyrus had a cobbled together tale he could pour over until he was content. They would be filled with brave knights with helpless damsels to save. Dragons with endless swathes of teeth and fire, looming over unaware villages. Sometimes the books didn't make sense, pages mashed together, plots jumbling until they became unrecognizable. Papyrus didn't like those as much, but he would read them anyway, doing his best to fill in the gaps. Then, when Sans couldn't find any books, he would plant himself on the end of Papyrus' bed and make it up as he went along, with wild gestures and mirth. His days studying were too long to permit him the time to daydream, so he savored every moment. The job at the lab would set both of them up for the rest of their lives.

  Papyrus would always remember those nights. One night in particular.

  "so then, get this, right? this princess just walked up to the dragon. just..." Sans made a forward motion with his arms to drive the point home. He was never a natural storyteller. "bam. got right up in there. if the dragon had a grill, she would be in it."

  "THEN WHAT?" 

  "she whipped out the sword she stole from the prince and stabbed it through the face, killing it and saving the kingdom. then everyone threw a huge party." 

  There was a long pause. "WHY DID THE DRAGON KILL ALL OF THOSE PEOPLE?" Papyrus asked, meekly. His bedcover swamped his small frame.

  "because it was a dragon, paps. it's just what they do. they show up and just start killing people."

  "MAYBE SHE COULD HAVE TALKED TO IT." Papyrus scratched the underside of his jaw, suddenly feeling foolish. "IF IT HAD BEEN KILLING ALL OF THOSE PEOPLE, THEN IT COULDN'T HAVE BEEN HAPPY. MAYBE IT WOULD HAVE STOPPED."

  Sans went to say something, to force Papyrus to see how things are, not how they should be.

  He couldn't.

  "you're right, pappy. the princess should've done that. i won't tell that dumb story again, alright? only happy ones."

  Papyrus knew then that the world was a good place, if you were willing to try your best. 

  Sans got the job in the lab, and the first thing he spent his paycheck on was a brand new copy of Fluffy Bunny Goes to the Zoo, crisp and still in the packaging. 

  But that was then, and the now was very real to Papyrus. Sans looked so small, frail. A shadow of the skeleton who would sit at the end of the bed, barely a man himself but with so much promise. The tears on his face had frozen in the cold, stinging his cheeks and hanging like stalactites.

  Papyrus knew that if he broke the hug, Sans wouldn't be able to stand.

  Wordlessly, Papyrus swung his shoulder back down. His bones screamed in protest, his body couldn't bear the weight much longer. 

  Wiping his nose with his sleeve, Sans looked up. 'thanks again pap. i'm bone tired.' 

  They stumbled through the front door together, Papyrus calling on the last bit of his strength to haul Sans over to the couch.

  He didn't know what to say to make everything better.

  As Sans lay down, Papyrus sat at the end of the lumpy sofa and without thinking, started telling the cobbled-together stories from his youth. Sans was asleep within a few minutes, but not before mumbling a "thank you, pappy."

  They would talk in the morning.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued support, and thank you for reading! I thought I would throw in a little reminiscing because I'm a big sap.


	9. Hangover

  Morning hit like a brick to the face.

  Sans shot up, hoping he would be in his bedroom, wrapped in the duvet cover. He would have given anything for that to be the case, for it to be a normal day. The springs of his mattress would jab at his spine and he would be grateful.

  The first thing he noticed was that he was on the couch, with his limbs tangled under a blanket.

  The second thing he became aware of was the feeling of a hook in his eye socket,  slowly pulling upwards towards the top of his skull, splitting the bone into shards and scattering the pieces. He whipped up a hand to his face. Oh good, he was only hungover.

  _Oh Jesus, he was hungover._

  Sans wanted to curse, to scream at himself until his rib-cage caved, to dash his skull against the hard wood of the stairs.

  "HEY."

  Papyrus was standing in the entryway to the kitchen, wearing a frilly apron. It was inside out.

  "oh. uh." Sans untangled a hand from the blanket before weakly waving. "hey."

  Papyrus walked in and awkwardly planted himself on the edge of the couch, further away from Sans than he would normally sit.

  "I, UM." Papyrus couldn't meet Sans' gaze. "I PUT THE STOVE ON TO MAKE SPAGHETTI, BUT, UH..." He threaded his phalanges together, clicking them over and over. "I WASN'T SURE IF IT WAS A GOOD IDEA, SO I STOPPED." There was a long pause. "I KNOW YOU LIKE TO HAVE SOMETHING TO EAT WHEN YOU'RE HUNGOVER, BUT-"

  "thanks. but i'm gonna skip out on that today."

  At least he hadn't fallen fully into the old routine, Papyrus mused.

  There was another pause, and its weight was crushing them both.

  "IF UNDYNE FINDS OUT ABOUT THIS..." It wasn't a case of if anymore, it was a case of when, but Papyrus couldn't bring himself to say it. "THEN I DON'T KNOW IF SHE'LL LET YOU KEEP YOUR JOB AT THE POST."

  Seconds ticked by.

  "i know, pap." 

  Papyrus kept his voice soft, forgiving. "WE CAN'T LIVE OFF THE SAVINGS FOREVER, SANS." He scooted closer, ridiculous apron scrunching underneath him. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE'RE GOING TO DO."

  Sans felt a tug in his chest. 'We're'. Even when there was only one person at fault, it was always 'we're'. Papyrus was old enough to strike it out on his own, if he wanted to. Zeal was a rare thing in the Underground. If he were in the guard, he could set up a life for himself easily, would be stationed in one of the posts closer to the Capital. No stress. No worries.

  Sans felt his shoulders drop. No dead weight.

  "hey, i have an idea."

  Papyrus' face lit up at the mere prospect. Of course Sans would have an idea! He always had ideas in times of crisis. It was his idea to move here after he lost his job at the lab, and that had worked out. Mostly. His brother was so smart, smart and kind and amazing-

  "if undyne knew about the..." He coughed, doing his best to ignore the splitting pain in his head. "the problems i'm having, then maybe she'd give you a place in the guard-"

  " _NO._ "

  Sans was taken aback. His voice was sharp and controlled, like an ice-pick.

  "THE GREAT PAPYRUS DOES NOT ACCEPT PITY. _NEVER_ PITY."

  Sans felt his breath pick up. The constant, steady trickle of guilt that ran through him became a deluge. He was trying to help Papyrus, but he couldn't see it.

  "NEVER PITY." He said again, like he was spitting blood from a cut. Even when things were at there worst, he had his pride. Heaps of it.

  "it wouldn't be pity, pap. more like..." Sans struggled. He had seen Papyrus angry two times in the past twenty-four hours. Not the play-anger he would summon  when they would joke around, soft around the edges. Hard, brittle, cold. Not Papyrus. "mercy?"

  Papyrus' features softened instantly. "BUT IF I GET IN, I WANT IT TO BE BECAUSE I'M GOOD AT WHAT I DO, NOT BECAUSE THERE'S NO OTHER CHOICE! AND BESIDES, IT WOULDN'T FIX THE PROBLEM." He swung a comforting arm around Sans, who took the opportunity to rest his head on Papyrus. His pauldron was freezing, but he didn't care. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT I CAN DO TO HELP YOU." The pulling feeling in Papyrus' chest returned, and he was becoming uncomfortable with its familiarity.

  "i'm sorry." Sans had said it before. He knew he would say it many times more before the day was over. "d'you trust me?" He wouldn't blame his brother if he didn't. If there was a time to come out with the full truth, this was it. About the resets, the fact that everything he did actually was pointless and not just self-defeatist, everything. Their life was about to come crashing down around them, so he owed Papyrus that much. He wouldn't remember, anyway. There would never be a more perfect opportunity. He turned his head towards his brother.

  Dear, sweet Papyrus, the boy who would pour over antiquated fairy tales, who would cry when he watched movies with sad endings, who would stay up late waiting for his brother to stumble back from the lab reeking of booze with a meal ready and a kind word, who would take setback after setback after setback with a smile, turned back.

  "I TRUST YOU," he lied.

  He hadn't been a boy for a while.

  "then I'll tell you everything. all of it. you uh, might wanna brace yourself, pappy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sweet googly moogly, over 500 kudos?! the pressure is on! 
> 
> (Also my new favorite hobby is seeing how far I can push Papyrus' character, so here's hoping I did OK!)


	10. Resolve

  "so." Sans turned on the couch, kicking some of the blanket off himself before giving up. He had no idea where to begin. He considered throwing out the term 'existential shitshow' and seeing where everything went from there, but the thought died when he looked at Papyrus' expectant face. "you know frisk, right-"

  "MY FRIEND!" Papyrus chirped, his malaise falling by the wayside at the mention of their name.

  Oh, that stung. He wasn't wrong, and that made it worse. "yeah, our friend. do they ever strike you as a little..." Sans faltered, insistently motioning with his hands as if Papyrus would finish his thought. "... fixated?"

  Papyrus kept smiling, but something subtle crept into his eyes. Sans couldn't pin it down, Papyrus didn't usually do 'subtle'.

  "WHAT ARE YOU GETTING AT?"

  "that maybe they can be a little too..." He thought about wringing his hands, but Papyrus had already picked up that habit from him and he didn't want to reinforce it. "determined?"

  The tension left Papyrus's eyes immediately, and he let out a long sigh. "THAT'S JUST HOW THEY ARE. I THINK IT'S A HUMAN THING! IT'S AMAZING, RIGHT?" Talking made Papyrus feel better, the stress from the past twenty-four hours seeping out of his body with every syllable. "THEY WANT SOMETHING AND THEY JUST GO GET IT! WOW."

  Sans winced in frustration, the blanket entangling his legs feeling more and more like a prison with every passing moment, the thrumming in his head low but consistent. "no. well, yeah, but..." He brought his hand up to his face before dragging it down slowly, "the kid's got some issues, papyrus."

  "OH." Papyrus said, not quite processing the sentence. Suddenly a wave of comprehension washed over him, "OH! ARE THEY ALRIGHT?" He remembered their offer to stay at the Inn, but took it upon himself to panic anyway. What kind of friend would he be if he didn't.

  "they're fine, papyrus." Sans wouldn't have chosen that word normally, but it would have to do. Anything to ward off the hysteria Papyrus was about to whip himself into. He didn't intend for the gentle lead up to the conversation he was meant to have to be so stressful. "the kid can fend for themselves. just listen to me pap, they're-"

  "WHAT IF THEY'RE NOT 'FINE'?" Papyrus was already adjusting his scarf and glancing at the door, mentally listing all of the things that could have happened. "I HAVE TO GO CHECK!" All other thoughts were beginning to fall by the wayside. Papyrus had never had many friends, so even the notion that one was in need crippled him. Panic gripped his chest, rapid and clawing. Before he could think, he was up and striding towards the door.

  "papyrus."

  "WHAT KIND OF FRIEND WOULD I BE IF I DIDN'T GO MAKE SURE-"

  " _papyrus_." Sans' voice had a hardened edge, his eyes betraying his level of composure. If he didn't say it now, he wasn't sure when he would be able to, if ever. Visions of scolding his brother as a child ran through his mind.

  Papyrus turned his head, his long body swaying slightly like a stalk of wheat. " _SANS_ ," he said, just as firmly. With that, he swung open the door to march outside, one red boot hitting the snow with a firm crunch.

  "i've seen you die," Sans blurted.

  Papyrus stopped in the doorway, something primal keeping him stock-still.

  "i've seen you die," he repeated, softer this time. "again and again." So much for the gentle lead-up. "it's the kid, pap. sometimes they just... do it. for no reason. then i wake up in my bed and everything's back to the way it was."

  Slowly, Papyrus pulled his foot back inside the house and shut the door with a soft click.

  "HOW MANY TIMES IS 'AGAIN AND AGAIN'?" His voice was flat, forehead propped against the wood of the door. It made his voice reverberate across the room, adding warmth when there wasn't any.

  Without thinking Sans dipped his head. He remembered why he never talked about it. "if i had to guess?" He did, he had stopped counting. "dozens."

  "HOW LONG?"

  Sans chuckled darkly. "language isn't really built for this kind of thing. kinda hard to measure time in a loop." If he were brusque, then he could get it all out and deal with the consequences later. He could pretend this was happening to someone else.

  "HOW. LONG?"

  "about a year. give or take."

  Papyrus pushed himself off the door, his bones feeling like liquid beneath him. He was shaking.

  "AND YOU'VE BEEN STUCK? FOR A YEAR?"

  "pretty much."

  "IS THAT WHY YOU'RE LIKE THIS?"

  "kind of." Sans always had problems, but it didn't help.

  "WHAT DID I DO?"

  Sans blinked. He didn't expect that.

  "FRISK IS A GOOD PERSON. SO WHAT DID I DO? I MUST HAVE DONE SOMETHING. THEY WOULDN'T JUST KILL ME 'FOR NO REASON'."

  Papyrus swung his head around to look at Sans, still propping himself up against the doorway.

  "MAYBE IF I'M THE BEST FRIEND I CAN BE, THEY'LL STOP. MAYBE I CAN MAKE THE RESETS STOP." His face exuded hope, sunny optimism burning away any resignation and leaving fresh resolve in its place. "I CAN DO THIS."

  "you can try," Sans choked.

  "YES," Papyrus beamed, "I CAN."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been itching to use the term 'existential shitshow' for a while, so I'm glad I got that in there. Thanks for being patient, I took a little break but I'm here now! Your support is still very much appreciated!


	11. Phonecall

  Undyne was calling. The phone was muffled under the cushions of the couch, tucked in the crevice under Sans, but they both knew. She would call just before the start of every morning shift at the sentry post. Officially, it was to dispense orders as Guard Captain. Off the record, it was just an excuse to talk to Papyrus, see how he was doing. Chat a little before he would roam the forest refining his puzzles. That part of guard protocol had been scattered to the four winds now that a human had sauntered in and made themselves cozy, so now she just called for the sake of it. 

  Sans heaved himself to the side as Papyrus strided towards the couch, exhilarated. He had a goal. A singular point to work towards, a pinprick of relief where there had been nothing but pressure. No more floundering. He would fix this. Papyrus stuffed his hand under the cushion, cringing a little at the mess. It was Sans' job to clean the couch, but Papyrus couldn't find it in himself to be angry.

  They exchanged a look that said 'should Undyne know about the resets?'

  Sans broke the silence, "it's up to you pap. i wouldn't."

  "HOW DO YOU THINK SHE WOULD TAKE IT?"

  Sans thought back, doing his best to parse through half-memories, days that would meld into one another with only faint seams to connect them. "um..." He wanted to be honest, he rarely had the chance to be all year. Well, all 'year'. He vaguely recalled her sleeping on the couch every day. He couldn't remember why, but he certainly remembered empathizing. "not well."

  Papyrus nodded slowly in confirmation, letting out a loud exhale. Sans' job was on the line, since this would be the timeline that stuck. Papyrus was sure of it. They could tell Undyne once everything was ironed out, she would understand. He brought the receiver up to his head, plonked himself on the couch and answered.

  "HI UNDYNE!"

  Immediately, Sans heard Undyne's voice reverberate out of Papyrus' skull and ring out across the room. He couldn't make out any specifics, but he got the gist. She was angry. Whether it was simply Undyne being Undyne, or directed at someone remained to be seen. She may not have known yet.

  He strained and heard the word 'drunk'. She knew.

  "NO, NO HE ISN'T HERE. HE'S AT THE POST, WORKING HARD..." Papyrus shot Sans a glance, on the off chance he hadn't noticed things weren't going well. "...YES, REALLY!" More garbled syllables. "... NO, I WON'T TELL HIM THAT." God, she was loud. Sans hadn't spent a lot of time with Undyne, but he could see why she and Papyrus were friends. "IT'S FINE UNDYNE, REALLY... COME ON, I DIDN'T CRY THAT MUCH."

  Sans put his hands over his face, but forced himself to keep listening.

  Papyrus absentmindedly grabbed at the fabric of the couch with his free hand, twisting it between his fingers. "... I DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, BUT I'M NOT REPEATING IT. I APPRECIATE YOU CHECKING UP ON ME, BUT I'M FINE! THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS USED TO THIS KIND OF THING!" Another unintentional twist of the knife. "I HAVE TO GO, I HAVE THINGS TO DO AND SANS IS BUSY AT HIS _JOB_." Papyrus stretched the word out, bracing himself for a rebuke. It never came and Papyrus let go of the fabric, the tension leaving him. "ALRIGHT. BYE, UNDYNE." He peeled the phone off of his cheek and hung up with a click.

  "was she upset?" Sans prodded.

  The withering look he received said it all.

  "what did she say?"

  "I WON'T REPEAT IT WORD FOR WORD, BECAUSE IT WOULD INVOLVE ME SCREAMING THE HOUSE DOWN, BUT SHE WASN'T HAPPY. SHE DID WANT ME TO PASS ON A MESSAGE."

  "oh?"

  "SHE SAID, 'FIX YOUR LIFE BEFORE I FIX IT FOR YOU'. THEN SHE CALLED YOU A 'DRUNK PILE OF FAILURE'. AND SHOUTED SOME MORE."

  "oh."

  Sans lay back on the couch, propping his head up on his hands, his body sinking into the plush fabric. He still hadn't changed out of the previous days clothes, his shirt stuck to him. "thanks for lying for me, pap. the dogs at the bar blabbed, right?"

  "PROBABLY. AND I WASN'T LYING, I WAS STALLING. YOU'RE GOING TO THE GUARD POST, UNDYNE IS PROBABLY GOING TO CHECK YOU'RE THERE." Papyrus swept his arm up to point at himself, like he had seen on TV. It was what heroes did. "AND _I_ AM GOING TO TALK TO FRISK."

  Papyrus looked into his brothers worried eyes and felt a surge of focus, of resolve, of determination.

  He felt his bones itch from the inside.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the new chapter! I meant to post this yesterday, but I started playing Fallout New Vegas again... Thanks for reading!


	12. Cleaning

  The house was spotless, bleach and the scent of artificial artificial lemon permeating the air; the worktops scrubbed, the entire house vacuumed, cushions plumped and re-plumped. Papyrus felt the acrid smell slip past his nasal cavity to fill the entirety of his skull, settling and stinging. Everything was clean enough, which meant everything was perfect. Everything had to be perfect for Frisk! What an excellent friend he would be. Papyrus would make up for his shoddy behavior in the other timelines, even if it killed him. Even if he didn't know what he had done wrong.

  Sans had been marched off to his post an hour previously, without the low-key grumbling Papyrus was used to. They hadn't spoke on the walk up, they simply enjoyed the silence. Sans kept quiet, doing his best to settle the nausea in the pit of his bones. Worry was a familiar feeling after all, but after the favor Papyrus had done for him he could worry in silence. Papyrus wouldn't have been swayed. He was dead-set on talking to Frisk.

  He was determined, Sans had thought. Panic prickled the inside of his skull before running down his spine. He couldn't order Papyrus not to go, he wasn't a child. Even if he were, he wouldn't have listened. He remembered the time he scolded Papyrus for hanging from a tree branch upside down. Papyrus had ranted and raved about how he could do it easily, about he could obviously conquer a measly branch, then slipped and fractured his ulna. They both made a point to pick up very basic healing magic after that. Ten years later and there was still a faint crack.

  All Sans could do was sit at his post and wait.

  Papyrus, to bury his nerves, had started cleaning as soon as he returned. It always made him feel better. A mess was something that could be fixed. A way to make the world better, even if it were very small.

  Frisk had managed to knock at the door once before it swung open and the smell hit them full force.

  "HI, FRISK!"

  Frisk could only hunch over and gag as their throat burned, unable to respond.

  "OH. DID I... DID I OVERDO IT?"

  Papyrus knew that being a skeleton had its advantages. He could stay underwater for as long as he liked. The cold didn't bother him as much as it would Undyne or Frisk. He could mix bleach and ammonia to get the really stubborn stains out of the oven.

 

  "I'M VERY SORRY."

  "It's alright, Papyrus," Frisk wheezed. "I'll be fine in a little while. You didn't know."

  They were both sat on the porch outside the house. The door was shut, thankfully, but every window in the house was open. Papyrus was slumped with his head resting on his hands. He had nearly killed Frisk. God, no wonder he kept dying. It was probably self defense.

  Frisk chugged from the bottle of water they were holding, Papyrus' lack of exuberance disturbing them. It was fair, but foreign. Sans had... Problems, and that couldn't have been easy to live with. Mostly caused by Frisk, they glumly noted.

  It wasn't deliberate.

  It just happened sometimes.

  "So."

  There was a pause.

  "How long has this been going on?"

  Life immediately returned to Papyrus' eyes as the sound of Frisks voice hit him, even if his mind hadn't quite caught up.

  "... THE CLEANING?"

  "No, Papyrus. Not the cleaning. The drinking." It felt like they were swallowing nails one by one.

  "OH! OH." His face slipped further down into his hands. Of course the drinking. "WELL... YOU'RE MY FRIEND, RIGHT?"

  The question threw Frisk off, but they quickly responded. "Yes? Of course I am."

  "WOULD YOU EVEN GO AS FAR TO SAY... MY BESTIE?"

  They giggled a little at the sincerity. Frisk had expected this conversation to be as heavy as the previous night, so the levity wasn't unwelcome. "Yes Papyrus. Besties."

  "THEN I'LL TELL YOU, BUT I WANT YOU TO MAKE ME A PROMISE FIRST. AS MY BESTIE."

  "Go for it."

  "COULD YOU MAYBE DO ME AND SANS A HUGE FAVOR..." Papyrus focused his gaze on Frisk, deep black sockets meeting small eyes. "AND UM..." It felt like he was going to ask for the world, but his voice was loaded with care.

  "STOP KILLING ME? PLEASE?" He pleaded.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the 'make papyrus suffer' train continues to chug along. thank you for reading!


	13. He Really Hated that Title

  Frisk was subject to millions upon millions of choices, and within those choices, billions upon billions of outcomes, and within those outcomes, trillions upon trillions of consequences, slithering just under the surface like a clasp of worms. You can skip through the garden, pull up every flower, frolic in the foliage or burn the shrubs to husks, but it would always be in the knowledge that the worms would be there to pick up the slack, to multiply and eat the dead. Sometimes, if it was raining, they would crawl to the surface in desperation. They did that sometimes. It was simply in their nature.

  What Frisk never could have accounted for was this specific outcome, with this specific consequence.

  It was never deliberate.

  Not once.

  "I-IT'S JUST THAT YOU'RE REALLY HURTING SANS! AND ME, OBVIOUSLY, BUT I CAN'T REMEMBER ANY OF IT. HE'S BEEN STUCK FOR A YEAR, JUST LOOPING OVER AND OVER AND OVER. B-BUT SO HAVE I, I'M JUST LUCKY ENOUGH NOT TO KNOW!" Papyrus had whipped himself into a  nervous frenzy, tugging at the the frayed ends of his scarf in an effort to soothe himself. His other hand pressed into the polished stair beneath him, carpals grinding against the suede of his glove and the grain of the wood. It was all coming out now, whether he liked it or not. He didn't want to hurt his bestie more than was absolutely necessary. "I KNOW YOU'RE A GOOD PERSON WHO DOES BAD THINGS SOMETIMES. THAT'S WHY I'M YOUR FRIEND, AND THAT'S WHY SANS IS YOUR FRIEND. EVERYBODY HAS FLAWS..." His hand slowed, grounding himself in self-affirmation. "I MEAN, I DON'T, BUT YOU AND SANS CERTAINLY DO."

  Understanding, sudden and catastrophic, rushed through Frisk. God, what a mess. They wanted to be curled up on the couch laughing at dumb, overwrought cartoons with Sans and Papyrus again. "I'm sorry," they croaked.

  His features were soft, the malleable bones of his face scrunching into a smile. "DON'T WORRY. I FORGIVE YOU! YOU JUST NEED TO PROMISE ME THAT YOU WON'T RESET AGAIN."

  "I..." Frisk clumsily wiped at their eyes with their sweater sleeve, the coarse fabric irritating their skin. "I'll try." They were seconds away from inelegantly blubbering, but that could wait.

  Papyrus bristled, but his expression remained locked. "YOU SHOULD TRY AS HARD AS YOU CAN! I THINK YOU CAN DO IT! BUT YOU JUST NEED TO PROMISE." Promises didn't mean as much as they used to, the previous night had seen to that. But they weren't devoid of meaning. Frustration crept into his eyes, his grin an expression of teeth, just human enough to be familiar.

  "I'll try my best. But I can't promise. Because I don't know how it happens." 

  There was a soft thud as snow slid off the overhang above them onto the ground nearby, taking the any response with it. All Papyrus could do was squeak out a "WHAT?"

  "I'll be walking, and I'll start thinking back... To Toriel, to Snowdin, to you and Sans. And before I know it..." All they could do was meekly shrug their shoulders. "I'm back. But sometimes I'm not me."

  Another silence. Papyrus was becoming sick of them.

  " _WHAT_?"

  Frisk let out a heavy sigh. "Do you ever have one of those weird dreams where you can't move, but things are still happening? You're moving on autopilot, just doing things without thinking?"

  "NO."

  "Well, I do. And this is it. This conversation? The fact we can even sit down and talk? All depends. There's a coin flip with every reset and I'm not sure how to stop them. Sometimes we can all hang out, and watch movies. Sometimes..."

  "YOU KILL ME."

  "Yeah. That."

  Papyrus swung his long body around, fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of his scarf again. He swung one arm out to clasp at Frisk's shoulder, a gesture of solidarity. "I DO HAVE ONE QUESTION." He had several, but those would come in due time, when the reality of the situation settled in.

  "Alright."

  "DID I EVER... DID I EVER FIGHT BACK?" The heroes in his old stories would have fought back. Stop the menace right at the source.

  "From what I can remember? No. Not once."

  "THANK GOD."

  Papyrus tightened his grasp on Frisk's shoulder, flecks of splintered wood embedded in his gloves. "YOU CAN'T PROMISE ME THAT YOU WILL STOP. BUT YOU'RE JUST A VICTIM TOO." Much like Sans, he noted. "SO AS SOMEONE ON THE 'INSIDE', I PROMISE THAT I'LL FIX THIS! I'LL FIGURE SOMETHING OUT, EVEN IF YOU CAN'T CONTROL THE RESETS. I PROMISE. I _PROMISE_."

  "You're shouting."

  All at once, Papyrus remembered that Frisk was simply a child. A determined, smart child, but a child nonetheless. At least Sans had the capacity to properly rationalize what was happening, even if he wasn't handling it well.

  "SORRY." The skeleton loosened his grip, before meekly picking at his scarf again. He had gotten swept up in the grandeur of it all.

  "How did Sans know? He was the one that told you, right?"

  "OH, HE-"

  Wait.

  How did Sans remember? Nobody else did, bar Frisk.  
  
 

  "You were going to tell me about Sans, before we got sidetracked." Sidetracked was a good word. Much better than 'existentially destroyed'. The resets couldn't be controlled, and could happen at any time. Frisk couldn't be convinced to stop, because they already wanted to stop.

  The walk to the sentry post wasn't a long one. Generally, Papyrus could be there within a couple of minutes, but he didn't want to bound ahead without Frisk. Things were awkward enough. Finding out how Sans knew about the resets was top priority, especially since he had more than enough opportunities to say something. Hopefully he was actually at his station instead of slacking _._ Papyrus didn't know what he would do, or say, if he weren't.

  "OH, RIGHT." Papyrus mustered an embarrassed chuckle. His problems didn't really compare to causality tearing itself apart at regular intervals. "ABOUT THE DRINKING." His scarf was completely frayed at the ends, from constant repetitive friction. "HE USED TO BE OUT AT THE LAB FOR HOURS AT A TIME, DOING-" Papyrus thought back to the detailed explanations Sans would spout at the slightest provocation, and how they would go completely over his head. Eventually, he had just stopped trying. A good summation of his life. "UM, _SCIENCE_ THINGS." Papyrus made a note to ask about the research later, and to really pay attention.

  "Sans is a doctor?" Frisk asked, sounding more surprised than they had intended.

  "OH, ABSOLUTELY!" Pride radiated off of Papyrus, he puffed out his broad shoulder and straightened his posture unconsciously. "HIS FULL TITLE WAS DR SANS, GRAND ASSISTANT TO THE ROYAL SCIENTIST IN THE NAME OF HIS HIGHNESS, KING ASGORE, SOVEREIGN OF THE ROYAL ORDER OF DREEMUR." He let out a fond laugh. "HE REALLY HATED WHEN I WOULD ROLL THAT ONE OUT."

  The warmth in him dissipated as he remembered what was happening, nostalgia falling away. "AT FIRST EVERYTHING WAS GOING GREAT! WE HAD A NICE PLACE IN THE CAPITAL, NEW THINGS. WE COULD EAT THREE MEALS A DAY! _EACH_!"

  Something akin to pity flashed across Frisk's face, but Papyrus ignored it. If he were sour, he would be cruel. If he were cruel, he would regret it.

  The snow crunched underfoot as they continued walking along. They had both scurried past Grillby's with their heads down on the way through town.

  "THEN ONE DAY, HE JUST CAME BACK DRUNK. I DIDN'T THINK ANYTHING OF IT. PEOPLE DO THAT SOMETIMES, AND AS LONG AS THEY HAD FUN IT WAS OK. BUT THAT WAS THE THING."

  They both continued marching along, footsteps as synchronized as they could be.

  "HE DIDN'T HAVE FUN, BUT HE WOULD DO IT ANYWAY."

  Papyrus focused his gaze forward on the ramshackle post at the end of the clearing, the sunlight and the snow making it look  washed out in the distance.

  "HE HAD WORKED THERE FOR ABOUT THREE YEARS WITH NO PROBLEMS, BUT WHEN HE WAS ASSIGNED TO ASSIST WITH THE CORE, THINGS REALLY WENT DOWNHILL."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy this, thank you for your continued support!


	14. Cake

 

  Papyrus knew Sans had got the job. He could tell before Sans had even said anything because he had come home on time instead of taking one of those long walks he seemed to love so much. He would always remember how the cheap wood of the door to their apartment made an awful grinding noise against the bare concrete of the floor when Sans walked in, remember the smell of the cake he had baked in preparation, remember that he had accidentally tipped an entire bag of flour on the floor in the process. He wished he would forget that part. Oh well.

  "you baked a cake? that's really sweet of you, pap. now i'm really glad i got the job. it'd be awkward if i didn't."

  "I HAD ACCOUNTED FOR THAT, BECAUSE I AM SO SMART."

  Papyrus had to lean forward with the plate to let Sans see the top of the cake, which had risen unevenly. It simply said 'JOB' across the middle in pink icing. He still wasn't used to being quite so tall, his limbs feeling too long for his body. That would come with time.

  "... 'job'?"

  "I COULD ICE WHATEVER I NEEDED TO WHEN I FOUND OUT. I THINK I'LL PUT 'CONGRATULATIONS ON THE JOB', OR 'I'M HAPPY YOU GOT THE JOB'.

  Sans chuckled. That was one way to do it. "what were the options if i didn't get the gig?"

  "EATING THE BAG OF ICING AND HAVING A LONG CRY."

  Sans' chuckling grew into a long, relieved laugh. "yeah, well, now you don't have to."

  Sans walked in and threw himself onto the couch, the springs poked at him, and looked up towards the damp ceiling. He had done it. He had actually done it. He applied himself, worked towards one of the most sought after positions in the Underground, and he had done it.

  "WHEN DO YOU START?"

  Sans whipped his head around, craned his neck to look up at Papyrus. God, he was tall. When had that happened?

  "tomorrow, at eight." He stopped for a moment. "in the morning," he added with playful indignation.

  He had done it.

  Papyrus walked over and sat down, still holding the plate as if he didn't know what to do with his hands.

  "... WHEN DO YOU GET PAID?" He had used the last of the eggs, and the cupboards were looking empty. All that was left was an especially stale loaf of bread. Hadn't stopped them before, but it certainly wasn't appealing.

  Sans looked at Papyrus, and allowed a little pride to wash over him. Assistant to the Royal Scientist. All of the pay, none of the responsibility. He could stand around with a clipboard all day and as long as he looked serious nobody would question him. "the dude took a shine to me. dr. gaster, i think it was." He shrugged his shoulders, but the tears prickling at the corner of his eyes betrayed his joy. "i got an advance."

  The news had finally sunk in, and Papyrus leaped from the couch and scooped Sans up into a hug.

* * *

 

  Gaster seemed nice enough. He certainly didn't have the presence Sans expected. In fact, he didn't really seem to have much of a presence at all. His 'body' was a miasma of black, inky fog with bony hands protruding from the mass. Sans squinted. They weren't made up of complex structures, of the metacarpals and phalanges his were, but of chips of bone assembled into a hand, dense mist seeping from every crack. This was the first time they had met in the flesh. Well, 'flesh'. It had been ballsy for Sans to ask for an advance, so he had to make the best impression he could.

  'Hello,' Gaster signed with deliberate slowness. Not many monsters could sign back, but it was worth a try. His previous assistant didn't even have hands.

  'hi' Sans signed back, without thinking.

  Gaster let out a noise of astonishment, before launching immediately into several more gestures, fluid and fast, all well practiced. Finally, someone who could keep up!

  "whoa doc, whoa." Sans stuffed his hands into his lab coats pockets. He wasn't used to the way it sat, his arms sat awkwardly against him. He felt like a tool. "i uh..." He cursed himself for not leading with this. "only know the basics." He coughed, Sans didn't even have lungs but God he needed to stall, anything to salvage this.

  Gaster kept looking, face frozen in an unreadable expression

  "'cos, y'know, my face is stuck like this. seemed good to know. but uh... i just use my magic. always had a knack for it." Of course he had a knack for it, he was a doctor of Applied Magic! So much effort to get to this point, and he was going to blow it by acting like a jackass.

  With unnatural speed, Gaster swept up the notepad and a pen on the desk next to him, hands moving independently of his form, seeming to drift. Still staring deep into the pits of Sans eyes, he scrawled out a note and held it out for Sans to take.

  'That takes a great degree of skill.'

  Sans read the note, then re-read it again. Gaster scribbled another, always staring, never blinking.

  'Flashy gestures are difficult, yes.'

  Scribble, scribble, tear.

  'But magic sustained over many years requires a great deal of hard work.'

  Sans thought about mentioning how it came naturally to him, about how it was simply an exercise in laziness, but decided against it.

  'I simply never managed it.'

  Artificial sunlight beamed through the window of the lab, the streetlights of the Capital doing their best to mimic the natural wonder. It eased the monsters that had resigned themselves to dying without seeing the real thing. Dust particles hung in the air, golden against the pitch black of Gasters form.

  Gaster put the notepad back down in precisely the same place he had picked it up and began to methodically sign, spelling out words rather than using their corresponding gestures, a good compromise. 'This comes more naturally to me.' He took in the sight before him. A short skeleton in a too-large labcoat that looked a little lost.

  The fog that made up Gaster coalesced into a more humanoid shape, drifted to assemble limbs and a torso. Might as well make an effort for his new colleague.

  'I was like you, at your age. I can see myself in you.'

  Screw it, Sans thought. No point keeping up the formalities. He was going to be himself. He was going to be a jackass, the opportunity simply couldn't be passed up.

  "geez doc, at least buy me dinner first."

  Gaster barked with laughter, and Sans felt more at ease. 

* * *

 

  It had been a year since Sans had started. The projects were all manageable, small scale tests of geothermic energy and the magic it produced. He didn't especially care, but if it was what Gaster was doing then he had to help. Generally, it involved sitting in the same place for a while and writing down numbers. He was good at sitting. It was his favorite hobby.

  Papyrus would gloat at every opportunity about how cool his brother was to anybody that would listen. The people they had hired to move their stuff to their new apartment, the nice lady at the bookstore that would check out his textbooks, the cute guy at the grocery store always got the brunt of it. God, Papyrus could eat as much fresh bread as he wanted to. He always beamed when he thought about that.

  They hadn't splurged, per say. Indulged was a better word. A nice new apartment, a fresh lick of paint, Undernet. Officially, it was for research purposes. Unofficially, it was for cat pictures. At that point the brothers were using it for the latter.

  "hey, bring up a dog pic, they're so cute."

  "YOU KNOW HOW I HATE DOGS."

  Papyrus' voice had stopped cracking and his shoulders had gotten broader, Sans noted with pride. He was always a good kid, but at some point he had grown into a great man.

  "c'mon bro, you don't need to get..."

  Sans let the last syllable hang in the air as Papyrus braced himself.

  " _catty_."

  "WOW."

  They both settled back into a content silence, the only sound being the clicking of a computer mouse.

  "i'm proud of you, pap."

  Papyrus swung his head around to look at Sans standing next to him. "YOU SHOULD BE, I'M AMAZING." Quietness fell again, like a fog of comfort. "WHAT BROUGHT THAT ON?"

  "i dunno, it's just..." Sans looked down, trying to think of a way to articulate what he was thinking. That was never going to come naturally, he thought. "you turned out alright. i was worried i would really fuck up and you'd end up being a serial killer or something."

  Papyrus shot a glance to the swear jar on the desk, but didn't interrupt.

  "but yeah. i'm proud." He was sure he had already said that. Oh well.

  Papyrus grasped at his chest over his tacky crop-top, touched. "THANK YOU!" He laughed, a little red tinging his cheeks. "I'M PROUD OF YOU TOO, DAD."

  He swung around on his chair to resume his surfing, blissfully unaware of what he had blurted.

  "...oh."

  Sans stood there reeling for a few moments as Papyrus clicked away, in his own little world. The bubble burst. Papyrus stood up as soon as he realized.

  "OH, WOW, SORRY, I-"

  "look pap, just-"

  "I, I DIDN'T MEAN, I'M-"

  "c'mon, ju-"

  "IS IT FINE?"

  Sans blinked.

  "I-IS IT FINE? IF I...IF I CALL YOU DAD?" he squeaked.

  Sans blinked again, more forcefully this time. He had hoped the motion would align his thoughts.

  "i don't think that's a good idea, papyrus," was all he could say.

  Papyrus looked crushed.

  "i love you." His voice wavered, but Sans did his best to keep the slow cadence he usually had. "a lot. more than anything. but we're brothers, right? you're my equal and i'm your equal. besides, a real dad could have done a lot more for you. you don't need to keep me in mind when you do your own thing. it's..." Lazier. More cowardly. "easier this way. i can't be your dad because i'm not."

  Papyrus choked back a sob.

  "you're a good man, papyrus." Sans grabbed onto Papyrus' hand and held it tightly, scooting the computer chair out of the way his his leg. "and you're my equal." He had almost said 'my better'.

  "YES. EQUALS."

* * *

 

  Gaster was dead.

  "he walked in. he walked into the Core like he was going..." Sans took a swig from the bottle and threw it against the ground. It landed on the plush carpet, liquid dribbling slowly. "like he was going for a stroll, or some bullshit!"

  Sans had stumbled into his room drunk, covered in ash. It was two in the morning and Papyrus had no idea what to do. Should he comfort him? Should he let him rant until he felt better?

  Sans swung his head to the side to spit out something that Papyrus couldn't make out in the dark, when a glint caught his eye. Primal revulsion gripped and pulled on the inside of his bones, every part of him disgusted. Something was embedded in Sans' eye, a piece of dark shrapnel about seven inches in length sticking straight out.

  Immediately, he darted forward, grabbed Sans by the face and yanked it out with his free hand, dropping it like it was poisonous. Before Sans could yelp, Papyrus conjured his healing magic as best he could. It had been years since he had last used it.

  Sans felt his lids droop as the pain subsided, a tingling feeling replacing that of marrow dripping down the back of his skull.

  "gaster didn't even say anything. nothing at all, he just looked at me and walked in. for the royal scientist, he's a real fuckin' idiot."

  The name snapped Papyrus out of his daze. "...WHO?"

  "gaster. my boss." Sans grit his teeth as the pain came back, in waves. "i've talked about him. now's not the time to kid around."

  Awareness was on Papyrus' periphery, but every time he came close to remembering, so tantalizingly close, he could feel the answer being cruelly tugged away from him, like a dark fog would drop across his thoughts.

  Sans felt the sliver of shrapnel in the back of his eye become swallowed up by the fresh bone growing over it.  
  
  Sans was offered the position of Royal Scientist. He declined. He drank. His eye hurt. 

  He did his best to forget. He drank. His vision would fill with blue then subside.

 

  He drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brief break, life happened ^-^; hope you enjoy this chapter.


	15. Obsession

  "undyne stopped by."

  Sans was slouching against the wood of the post, his back as hunched as it always was. At first, it hurt to slouch like that. Then it hurt to sit normally. Eventually, he couldn't be bothered to pick one option and propped himself up against the surface with his elbows, head on hands, his arms partially hiding his rictus.

  "...STOPPED BY?" Sans was here, and wasn't a very compact pile of dust. Good God, it was like Christmas!

  "yeah. stopped by." Sans couldn't think of a better way to put it, she hadn't actually said anything.

  Frisk thought about coming clean about the resets immediately, but didn't want to puncture the mood. It was almost as if nothing were wrong. "What did she say?"

  "well, that's the thing, kid," said Sans as he leaned forward to get a better look at Frisk. He cast a brief glance at Papyrus and looked relieved. "she didn't say anything." He swung his body back into the chair, sighing as if he had just run a marathon. "y'see that tree there?" He pointed his skeletal digit at the cluster of trees twenty feet away, imposing against the endless stone of the mountain. "she parked herself at the top, and just uh." He brought his hand to scratch at the underside of his jaw as if he were thinking his words through very, very carefully. "kinda stood there and posed? did some pretty sweet acrobatics, though. if she wasn't so scary, i'd be really impressed."

  Papyrus mimicked the gesture, bringing his hand up to his chin as if he were surveying a crime scene. "SHE DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING AT ALL?" Papyrus moved his hands in a circular motion as if he were slowly unspooling his thoughts. "DIDN'T HOP DOWN AND GIVE YOU A BIG LONG SPEECH?"

  "nah, none of that." Sans settled back, before a look of recollection hit his eyes. "she did make this weird gesture."

  Frisk snickered.

  Sans shot them a look that said 'no, not that."

  "AH, I SEE." He puffed his chest out, then swung both of his arms forward, up and back as if he were deflecting an incoming attacker. "WAS IT LIKE THIS?"

  "yeah, exactly. how'd you know?"

  "SHE WAS THREATENING YOU," Papyrus said, proud he could relay this tidbit on The Guard, "WITH A DISCIPLINARY SUPLEX."

  Frisk didn't look surprised.

  Sans sat on his chair dumbstruck, his unflappable demeanor cracking a little. "she can do that? that's military protocol?"

  "WELL... NO. BUT UNDYNE IS VERY SMART, SHE COMES UP WITH A TON OF NEW RULES ALL THE TIME! THE GUARD IS THE STRONGEST IT'S EVER BEEN!" That was a lie, a barefaced lie. They had never recovered from the war. Papyrus pushed that out of his mind.

  "Could be worse," Frisk interjected. "She could have jumped down and actually suplexed you." Blue spears and tall grass ran through their mind, fuzzy and distant. They shuddered.

  "SHE WAS JUST DOING IT TO SCARE YOU. SHE'S A REAL SOFTY AT HEART."

  "beneath the armor," Sans said without missing a beat.

  "YES."

  "and the spears."

  "YEP."

  "and the fact she's a captain."

  "THAT AS WELL. BOY, YOU'RE GOOD AT THIS!" Papyrus said in all sincerity.

  The mood was picking up, this was far better than Papyrus being upset and Frisk being...

  He thought for a moment.

  ... Deranged, he decided. Sans actually felt a little at ease. Maybe everything would work out, in the end. Maybe not this time, maybe not the time after. But eventually. Eventually, was enough. This moment, this point in time proved that.

  "I'm sorry," Frisk said, voice tense with awkwardness. They remembered the time they had broken their neighbors window and apologized in the same tone of voice, it didn't seem enough.

  Sans got up from his wooden chair, ragged sneakers sinking into the snow as he stretched his arms above his head. His shoulders popped. That felt better.

  "s'alright," He said between stretches, swinging his arm in front of him until he heard another faint click, "i know you don't mean it. it ain't you." It wasn't alright, Sans would feel a dark pit of anger, of bile, whenever he would think of his brother dying but it would always dissipate when he looked at Frisk's youthful face. The resets had always come soon after, thank God. "everyone's got bad habits. i leave my socks out, papyrus makes 'pew pew' noises when he plays with his toys-"

  "THEY ARE _ACTION FIGURES_ , AND THEY ARE _ACTION NOISES_!" Papyrus blasted in righteous indignation, forgetting the reason they had trekked there in the first place.

  Sans chuckled softly, "yeah, sure. whatever helps you sleep at night, pappy."

  Frisk swung their head to the left to look at Papyrus, who was thoroughly flustered. Might as well get in on the good-natured ribbing. " _Pappy_?"

  "OH, NOT YOU AS WELL!"

  "oh yeah," Sans responded, fondness working it's way into his eyes. "i've got so many stories from when he was a kid." He latched desperately onto the moment, onto the brief respite, something he had almost forgotten about. "he ever tell you about time he tried to do a sweet backflip off the stairs of our apartment because he wanted to be a kite? fell down like a slinky-"

  "THIS CONVERSATION," Papyrus declared as he stomped his foot into the snow, throwing his arms out in an attempt to drag back some dignity, "IS OVER!"

  "fine, fine." Sans held his hands up in a gesture of defeat before stuffing his hands back into his hoodie's pockets. The line in the sand was still a few ribs away, but he stopped nonetheless. "what did you need, anyway? my shift doesn't end for two hours."

  "THREE."

  "close enough."

  Frisk and Papyrus glanced at each other and Sans felt his good humor leave as quickly as it arrived. It reminded him of being drunk; warmth and then nothing.

  Frisk stepped a little close to Papyrus and leaned up, as if Sans wasn't directly in front of them. "Do you want me to tell him? Or-"

  "I'LL DO IT," Papyrus said through gritted teeth, hands clenching and relaxing. He didn't want to keep wringing his scarf, it would fray away to nothing. It was bad manners to mistreat a gift.

  "I'm sorry." Frisk blurted.

  "you've already said that, frisk," Sans replied, blankness tinged with worry at its edges. He was clawing at the inside lining of his pockets.

  "SO UH... FRISK CAN'T CONTROL THE RESETS. LIKE YOU."

  Birds chirped, ringing off the hollow inside of the mountain. Faintly, very faintly indeed, the hustle and bustle of Snowdin could be heard from the post, carried by the wind. Undyne was probably back at her house already. It was a lovely day for a walk, or to skip rocks at the lakes edge.

  "huh."

  Frisk felt their leg cramp, noticing they were tensing every muscle in their body. Sans could have bellowed, snapped and went for them with some kind of attack, wept, screamed, sobbed and they would have understood. It would have been frustration, would have been something, _something_!

  Lowly, flatly, Sans chuckled. "yeah. 'huh'. it's better than saying 'oh shit'."

  "I," Papyrus said for what felt like the hundredth time that day, "AM GOING TO FIX-"

  "stop it, pap. just..." Sans pinched the bridge of his nose. Everything was just so meaningless. "stop it, alright? don't. you can't, not this one." He thought about shouting, but didn't. He couldn't.

  Papyrus clenched his fists until his bones stung.

* * *

 

  "I," Papyrus said to himself as he marched towards the entrance to the basement, letting the affirmation push him on.

  "AM GOING." He had been repeating the phrase like a mantra since he had stomped home, over and over, a goal, an ideal, a purpose, a need.

  He looked at the picture he kept tucked in his scarf, taken on his birthday years ago at Waterfall. Sans had found a polariod camera and pestered a resident into taking a picture of them both before he sold it. It had covered rent for two months. He looked at the eye where the shrapnel would be, transfixed.

  " _TO FIX THIS_."

                                    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Threw in a little levity, because this whole fic is one big sad fest. I also did the pic, I hope it's ok! ^-^;
> 
> edit: fixed some errors


	16. Core

  Gaster looked up from his desk, the static slab that made up his face craning upwards. He dropped his pen onto the paperwork under him, some of his form seeping with it. The heat was making it difficult to concentrate as he gestured. 'Have you thought on a name?'

  Construction had begun on the single most expensive piece of monster technology in recorded history, massive in its scope and daunting in its implication. Something that could generate magic on an industrial level and use it as a sustainable source of power for the entire Underground rather than relying on the pieced-together generators made from errant garbage. Agriculture, education, medicine, simply living day-to-day; all revolutionized.

  Sans kicked his legs absentmindedly as he sat on the end of the desk, his hoodie drenched with sweat. He cursed himself for forgetting that, yes, Hotland was indeed hot. Who could have known? "uh..." He hemmed as if he were in deep thought, and thrummed his hands rhythmically on the warping wood. "... how 'bout 'the most expensive lava lamp in the world'?"

  'No.'

  Sans pulled out the crumpled slip of paper Papyrus gave him when he had found out the project had still to be named and started reading aloud, the sheet nearly slipping from his hands. "the 'super cool hot thing'? uh..."

  'No. I am assuming that was Papyrus' suggestion,' Gaster responded, the pulsing fog around him shaking with mirth. At least, Sans had assumed it was mirth. Body language was a difficult subject when your subject didn't have a body.

  "heh, yeah. you like it?"

  'It is a valiant attempt.'

  Sans let his head loll back as if the heat were melting the stiffness in his bones away and did his best to distract himself by counting the cracks in the dark rock of the ceiling. Were they given this room because it was the closest to the building site, or because they didn't have flesh to char? He puffed out some air in thought. "how about 'the core'? that is where we are, right?"

  'It is...' Gaster slowed his movements as he tried to think of a diplomatic term. Insulting? A constant reminder of entrapment, naming the hope of Monsterkind after something constantly shifting under the Earth? 'A little lazy.'

  Sans shrugged. "well, yeah. but you gotta make it accessible to your average monster on the street, right? i mean, who's gonna want to talk about the 'large-scale geothermic magic extractor'? nobody, that's who. hey, i helped design the thing and i don't even wanna talk about it," he added mischievously.

  Another shake of laughter, light and playful. 'Indeed. Fine then, I'll bite. Core it is. Though I am not sure Asgore will agree.'

  "he called this place 'hotland', doc. and that town to the west 'snowdin'. unless you can think of something, i think 'core' is the best we're gonna get."

  'Point taken...' Gaster sat up and braced himself, smoke coiling and tightening in concentration. A choked noise escaped from him as Sans looked on in bewilderment, then a low gurgle that ebbed and flowed from the center of him, not restricted by breath or lungs. The gurgle built on itself in layers before finally coalescing into a single gargled syllable. "... Doc..." he rasped.

  "oh shit, not bad!" Sans beamed back.

  'Thank you,' Gaster signed, unable to summon the magic to choke out another word.

* * *

  Magic was fascinating, when you got right down to it. At least, Gaster had always thought as much. The theory, God, the theory! Anybody could use magic, monster or human. Had it been that simple, however, the war would have been less one sided.

  Some things came naturally. Monsters had innate control of magic, the power to directly command and influence the things around them on a very visceral level, immediate and powerful. On the flipside, it was with the knowledge that if you were focused, if you were stubborn, if you were determined then there was no going back. Control had to be absolute, or your soul would drip and evaporate like water on a pan. They knew magic, because they were magic.

  Humans _could_ learn magic. They rarely did, but they could. The clans would band together and elect the most passable candidate as their 'wizard', their 'warlock', their 'witch', then disperse. At least, they had used to. Gaster couldn't speak for the current system. Constructing the barrier, something that had taken seven wizards two days under a barrage of fire would have taken one monster two hours. The issue with humans was that, when it came down to it, they simply didn't need magic.

  Their bodies could persist after death. Sometimes, only sometimes, they could be brought back. They would break, fall, shatter and heal. It was a trade off. Monsters had unshakable control of the immediate. Humans; a horrifying force of will that would endure and persist and _never stop_.

  Towering behemoths, things that simply could not be called monsters anymore would stride across the battlefield, heaving with souls.

  Humans, physical and squishy and so similar to each other, (how do they tell each other apart?) would charge and cut and bite.

  Conscription was mandatory for all able bodied monsters, the ones with the strongest souls, the mightiest, with mastery of the rarest schools of magic.

  Gaster did not make it in.

  But God.

  The _theory_.

* * *

 

  It was maddening.

  The Core was complete.

  Magic, beautiful, powerful and _infuriating_ would pulse in front of him every day when he could barely hold his body together. His assistant would vocalize effortlessly and pull cups towards himself from the other side of the room with his powers, make puns with that artificial low voice. Puns! He didn't need to concentrate, Gaster was proud, proud and angry. Did his brother do the same, or were his bones more malleable?

  The woman that would ferry his notes from the other labs would use magic, Dr... Alphonse? He would need to learn her name, she hadn't told him. Never huge gestures, subtle, picking up notes that she would drop, absentmindedly letting it crackle between her fingers when she would stutter out news and requests.

  It wasn't that he couldn't use magic, that was an impossibility. It was that he couldn't control it. He would let his form flit over the desk and his vision would collapse around him into shapes, he would see the back of himself in the past (present? future?), walk down the hall and pick up a piece of paper someone had dropped and be assailed by sounds and visions of a place and time that wasn't his (bones? pictures? what's a 'Grillby's?'). If he only had more control, more magic. God, _God_ how he adored the theory.

* * *

  
  The Core sung underneath him, through him, through the barely-there gas that was his body, so close, so intangible.

  He couldn't take it.

  He was a monster.

  He was magic.

  He was the most qualified creature that ever lived.

  He couldn't do it.

  He couldn't.

  A mistake.

  "I," he had rasped to himself quietly, oh so quietly, the effort nearly killing him, "am going to fix this."

  He walked in.

* * *

Gaster was the Core. Gaster _was_ magic. Gaster _was_ the theory.  


* * *

Sans could never bring himself to throw away that slab of shrapnel. Though he wouldn't admit it, he was sure he could sometimes hear it hum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you've all been hankering for some gaster backstory!


	17. Dishes

  They were doing the dishes when the reset happened. A desperate lunge at glorious mundanity. Sans had only been back for an hour.

  Papyrus paused for a moment to process what was happening, then resumed. Pasta had an unfortunate habit of sticking, and he certainly wasn't going to stop cleaning just because reality was tearing itself apart. He wasn't a savage.

  Sans was too short to reach the sink so he was on drying duty, eyes blank. He didn't flinch when he realized.

  "frisk in the living room?"

  The living room didn't exist anymore.

  "YES." Were they? Did they have a living room? "I THINK."

  Flecks of the kitchen counter dropped off in rot, then rose upwards until they crumbled to nothing. Papyrus handed down another dish to Sans, suds dripping and hitting the linoleum floor. The soap was going to leave residue, he just knew it.

  Sans dried it mechanically.

  "you're allowed to be upset, y'know," Sans said, voice weak. "you don't have to pretend that this is alright." There was still pasta stuck to the plate. He dried anyway. "it's not good for you," he added with a grim chuckle.

  Papyrus swung his head down in confusion, noticing the encroaching whiteness in the corner of his eye. It had swallowed up the door to the kitchen and was rolling in like fog. "BUT WHEN I'M UPSET, NOTHING GETS DONE," he said plainly. There had to be a bright side to this. There had to be.

  "THIS DOESN'T HURT AS MUCH AS I THOUGHT IT WOULD!" He chirped, doing his best to muster up some optimism.

  That was a lie, Sans knew. It felt like hooks were grabbing at their bones and pulling; tighter, tighter, tighter.

  "yeah. sure," he grunted.

  Papyrus felt something push into his form from the back, like the wind was whipping through his ribs. The back of his skull was peeling away like paper, he thought. He didn't want to check.

  "this has been... something. not nice, exactly, but something. never had the chance to talk about this stuff before..."

  Papyrus fought back the natural urge to look at Sans as he was talking, not wanting to see him be torn apart. The counter was gone, leaving a white void in its place. Where where they, exactly?

  "thanks for trying to fix it, pap. i appreciate it, i really do. but you can't." He shrugged to himself, the motion loosening the threads of his hoodie as they were tugged away into nothing. Sans went to wring his hands, but noticed the thick crack that ran from his phalanges up through his ulna and to his scapula. "i guess i'm pretty armless, ey?"  

  "OH, MUST YOU DO THAT?" Papyrus gargled, surprising himself. Speaking was so, so difficult. He wanted to take one of those little naps Sans seemed to love. He would feel better when he woke up. They could make spaghetti and eat one of those awful sugary quiches.

  "c'mon bro, don't be so-" Sans felt his voice break as the crack tore through him to his torso like a faultline, ribs lifting and crumbling like powder. "d-don't be so- ow, fuck! don't be so _sans-itive_." Papyrus' mind always went first when the resets would hit. Always, always. Better to have him think they were bantering at the guard post than a sobbing, confused mess. 

  "L... LANGUAGE!"

  What was left of the floor beneath them was warping, spiraling up and outwards into impossible structures, the surface not cracking as it bent. It was as if it were being plucked and stretched like elastic.

  "i'll make sure to put a little in the swear jar when we get back, a-alright?"

  Papyrus was bent over, hunched against himself with his hand on his knees. Where did the other one go? Did he forget it somewhere? His bones were thinning, his left leg wasted away to a dagger-like sliver. "YOU... HAD BETTER!" Why couldn't he speak properly? He was good at that. It helped people remember how great he was.

  "i will." Sans couldn't maintain his voice anymore, his magic finally giving under the strain. He threw himself against Papyrus and held him as tightly as he could. Every time this happened, he couldn't bear to leave him be.

  It was if Papyrus had been split in a perfect diagonal, scarf long since dissolved, the right half of his torso snapped away with a perfect crunch like a branch from a tree.

  "SANS?"

  Sans looked up, his vision dipping in and out in waves. Papyrus' eye socket had cracked and grown until it took up almost half of his head, whiteness beaming through the gap in the back of his skull like a searchlight.

  "I FIXED IT," he said with perfect lucidity. He held out his left arm, the one with the crack in the ulna, the one he had broken as a child. An inky black sliver of metal poked out, barely the width of a fingernail. Sans wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't pointed it out.

  Was that...

  Was that from the shrapnel in his workshop?

  The floor finally snapped and gave out from underneath them, but they didn't fall.

  Papyrus beamed with what little of his face he had left as they were both ground to powder under the crushing weight of reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sweet googly moogly i broke 1,000 kudos O_O; i did another picture to mark the occasion! this one isn't as cheerful as the last...


	18. Laugh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> word of warning, there's some very dark themes in this chapter.

  It wasn't that Sans wanted to die, it was that he simply didn't want to be alive anymore.

  He had lived, and he had not lived, far too much. The option had always hovered very vaguely in the back of his mind like a pin on a map, he could see what was at the destination, he could do it, but he simply had too much going on. It was his turn to go to the store. There was a sale on ketchup. Papyrus was halfway through a boxset and he would have nobody to talk to about it. He wanted to see if Gaster could set off a whoopie cushion when he sat down.

  He couldn't, which somehow made it funnier.

  Rather than death being an end point, it could have simply have been an efficient diversion for when he simply had nothing to do. It certainly felt like he had nothing going on, but Papyrus would insist otherwise. He had forgotten what 'on' had felt like. He wasn't sure if he had even known in the first place.

  Had this began in Snowdin, he would have understood. He could have pretended he was simply some tragic martyr in a badly written play, bring his limp wrist to his forehead, wrap the other around a bottle and toss himself gracefully into the river. The audience would applaud, the curtains would close and he would be given sweet, sweet closure. But it hadn't. They had just bought a nice new television in the capital. Passers-by would flutter their eye-lashes. Papyrus could sometimes crane himself just enough to see a crack in the mountain from their apartment, spending hours staring at the foreign blue sky.

  After the first reset, he had pleaded with Papyrus to remember. There was no Frisk that time, just an unpleasant growth of ivy in the front yard that encroached onto the porch, pricking him when he would walk by. The vine tripped him and he remembered breaking his neck comically, limply tumbling down the single step onto the snow with a 'poomf', face down. Looking back, that one had been pretty funny.

  He knew why this was happening. You couldn't survive a magical accident and walk away unscathed, after all, not with something as huge and powerful as the Core. Whatever it was that had wedged itself in his eye seemed to exist outside the timelines, outside himself. If there was one thing Sans could appreciate it was a good joke, and this was the greatest one he had ever been a part of.

  Occasionally, he could feel thrumming in his left eye, the soft vibration shaking his skull.

  During the fifth reset, he tried to pry out the metal with a pair of rusty tweezers. That in itself didn't pose a risk. What was he going to get, tetanus?  He woke up in his bed like he always did, the fifteenth of September, six fifteen AM, room freezing because he couldn't be bothered to shut the window the night before, bed unmade because quite frankly that seemed a little pointless. Everything did, but that especially. Sans made the decision to be ignorant. He could pluck out the shrapnel and that would be it, tear out his awareness like a splinter. He balled up his shirt and stuffed it into the small gap between his teeth and went to town. The shirt didn't actually do anything to muffle the noise. It was the gesture.

  Sans had, in his zeal, overshot the mark completely, and accidentally perforated his skull with the prongs, killing himself. That had been a real knee-slapper. He was _sans_ an sphenoid bone. Hilarious.

  Reset six, attempt number two. He managed to grab ahold of the shrapnel and tug firmly, very firmly indeed. He pulled and yanked and fell backwards out of the window until he was jam packed with shrapnel. Not the magical kind, fortunately, but painful nonetheless. Papyrus was out training, as he always was in the morning. This attempt was a bust, and he couldn't move.

  He used the time wisely, and came up with puns.

  Window- _pain_? Ooh, that was a keeper.

  All in all, it had taken twenty minutes for him to expire, chortling all the way.

  Reset seven, attempt number three panned out swimmingly. He had managed to pluck away just enough of the bone at the back of his eye socket to get to the metal, but managed to leave just enough to keep his skull together. With an almighty tug, out it came, and he laughed and laughed and laughed.

  It had roots.

  Reflexively he heaved, a useless holdover from his more-bodied ancestors that did little more than stop him in his tracks. He couldn't vomit, but he couldn't stop. Tiny little tendrils, like finely spun silk, hung from the lower part of the metal. Gingerly, Sans brushed the underside with his digit-

  They moved.

  He tossed it against the grimy carpet of his room and blasted it with his magic, precise and controlled like a laser. Sans could feel marrow pooling in his lower jaw, the thick liquid peppered with chunks of bone.

  He woke up in his bed on September fifteenth, a familiar sensation settling in the back of his left eye.

  It existed outside the timelines. It was magic. It was the theory. Once it was a part of you, it was there forever, much like magic itself.

  It would grow and grasp at you. It had always been there. From the day you were born, it had always been there. It would always be there.

* * *

 

   "you've got no idea what you've done, do you?"

  "I FIXED IT. WE DIED," Papyrus said, gleefully, "AND WE'RE BACK! I REMEMBER. I'M VERY SMART, YOU KNOW."

  They were in the living room, Sans not even bothering to get dressed, slumped on the couch in his boxers. Papyrus was propped up on the opposite end, rigid like a trophy, beaming with pride.

  "how'd you even-?"

  "HOW DID I KNOW? WELL, I STARTED THINKING. LIKE, THINKING SUPER HARD. HARDER THAN I USUALLY DO, WHICH IS STILL A LOT-"

  "papyrus, please."

  "AND I REMEMBERED ALL THAT SCIENCE STUFF YOU BROUGHT ALONG WHEN WE MOVED. SO THEN I STARTED THINKING EVEN MORE, LIKE 'WHAT WAS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND YOU'?"

  "i don't jam random things in my body. things that i don't understand." Sans was tired. He wanted to sleep forever.

  "YOU WERE AT THE CORE WHEN THINGS WENT WRONG. AND I KNEW YOU BROUGHT A LITTLE HERE, TOO. IT WAS EITHER THAT, OR YOUR GROSS HOODIE, BUT I DIDN'T WANT TO PUT THAT ON. TURNED OUT IT WAS THE CORE. GO, ME!"

  Sans was staring at Papyrus' arm, at the little glint of metal that would pull his gaze and mock him. The only thing that he had wanted was to keep Papyrus safe, and he had fucked up. The _only_ thing.

  Sans tossing himself into the Core and escaping was no longer an option, his only choice torn from him by the clumsy grasp of his brother.

  "I THOUGHT ABOUT WHEN I CARRIED YOU HOME, FROM GRILLBY'S. YOU SAID YOU WANTED TO GIVE UP." Papyrus' voice cracked a little, the only chip in his heroic demeanor. "WELL, NOW YOU DON'T HAVE TO! WE CAN TAKE TURNS!"

  "turns?" Sans replied, incredulous. " _turns_? you don't-"

  "WE'LL TAKE OUT YOUR PIECE, AND THEN I WILL TACKLE THE NEXT FEW RESETS TO MAKE UP FOR MY POOR PERFORMANCE! I MEAN, YOU'VE BEEN DOING ALL THIS BY YOURSELF? I'VE BEEN SLACKING AND FOR THAT, I APOLOGIZE. THEN IF I START FEELING DOWN..." He swept his arm up in front of him in a pose, as if he were addressing the entirety of Monsterkind. "I'LL TAKE OUT THE SHRAPNEL AND YOU CAN TAKE OVER! TURNS!" Papyrus beamed, he felt like one of the knights in his old stories.

  "you're so naive. you turned out so friggin' naive. i'm sorry, papyrus. god, what a mess." Sans let his face sink into his hands, air chilling him. He had failed.

  "I AM NOT NAIVE," he bit back, harsher than intended. "AND THIS WAY, FRISK DOESN'T HAVE TO BE ALONE!"

  "you can't, once you're stuck, you're stuck. it's just the way it goes." A part of Sans, a part deep down in the depths of him, was furious. It was being weighed down by the apathy he had collected over the year, like a tribute. "i mean i'm a doctor in this bullshit and i didn't tell you about the shrapnel, does that not tell you something?"

  "WELL," Papyrus snapped back, face going red as his plan was scattered to the four winds, "I JUST ASSUMED IT WAS ONE OF THOSE SECRETS YOU KEEP FROM ME. I'M NOT A CHILD, SANS."

  "yeah, kids sometimes think things through." Sans' voice lacked the lazy edge Papyrus was used to. It was without the subtle, artificial throatiness he would use to make his voice indistinguishable from the average persons. It was simply a monotone listing of syllables, like it were being played back by a computer.

  "I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE ANGRY WITH ME, THIS WAS FOR YOUR BENEFIT! _EVERYTHING_ I DO IS FOR YOUR BENEFIT. AND BESIDES..." Papyrus lowered his voice, when had he started shouting? "YOU'LL ALWAYS HAVE ME. YOU'LL NEVER SUFFER ALONE AGAIN. NEVER."

  A sudden wash of emotion, like water breaking a riverbank, hit Sans. His body shook as he laughed, he laughed and laughed but God how he wanted to stop.

  Papyrus scooted over and placed his hand firmly on Sans's shoulder, not saying anything.

  Life really was funny, when you got right down to it.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your positive feedback and support! if you have any questions and they aren't spoilery, just ask and i'll do my best to answer them!


	19. Sacrifice

  Catastrophic sacrifices for the Greater Good was something that seemed to happen to heroes, Papyrus noticed. That was what the characters in his books did. It didn't necessarily matter that the Greater Good was a very vague term that changed from book to book, page to page. Sometimes the Greater Good was saving a family from a burning building, but having to leave their dog inside. Sometimes it was saving an entire village at the cost of the family. Less often, it was leaving the village to die to save the world. Papyrus would bemoan the fact that the heroes, the brave knights in their perfect armor, couldn't strive towards the Greatest Good, which was far easier to consolidate and less likely to change on a whim.

  The Greatest Good was to save everyone, and that was that. No killing. No gritty anti-heroes. Everyone lives, everyone's happy. That wasn't to say perfection was easy, but if it were, then what would be the point?

  There was a plan, and it was an excellent one, if he did say so himself.

  Papyrus was going to give Sans time off. That was his original idea.

  He would disinfect a pair of tweezers, pluck out the shrapnel from the back of Sans' eye, and that would be that. Blissful ignorance would set in, and Papyrus would tough out the cycles in recompense.  Sans could go back to meandering about the house, wiling the days away in something that resembled contentment. He could come back from Grillby's reeking of chilli fries instead of whiskey. Then Papyrus could intercept Frisk as they entered the village as they normally did, but with their combined know-how they could come up with a concrete plan without the pressure of an impending, painful death. Fifty percent of the time, at least. Papyrus had all the time in the world, as did they. Statistically, there had to be a way out.

  Unfortunately, jamming a scientific abomination into your arm came with some unexpected drawbacks. The first being that it was a little itchy, and given the nature of time loops it wouldn't heal enough to stop irritating him. The second was that he couldn't yank out Sans' shrapnel like a weed in the garden, because once it was there it was firmly rooted. Magic was strange like that, how things could anchor to your soul. He could wield it well enough, but he had never really grasped the theory. The third, of course, was that he was also stuck.

  As he looked at Sans slumped on the couch, too distraught to even be angry, he couldn't help but feel that perhaps he hadn't thought this through.

  Luckily, he was going to fix this. He had done it for a very good reason, even if it hadn't panned out as he had expertly planned. He was going to help Sans, even if Sans didn't want to be helped. It was what heroes did.

  He could figure everything else out afterwards.

  Sans didn't go to work that day, instead choosing to lock himself in his room. Papyrus felt it best not to nag him about it, he would cover his shift.

  Papyrus would have never admitted it, but not having to worry about Sans hurting himself when he was out was a relief. The thought would still burrow and claw at the inside of his skull, but Sans was safe whether he liked it or not. In the short term he was still fragile, of ivory bones and coarse, black dust, but in the long term he would always come back.

  Papyrus parked himself at Sans' post, far closer to the Ruins than his usual route, and waited for his bestie to arrive.

 

  Papyrus was snapped in half like a piece of dry timber almost immediately after he heard the twigs crack behind him, a single powerful kick breaking his back before he could swing around to face Frisk. He let out a noise of indignation and promptly died, cursing himself for taking the time to look out to Snowdin. 

  He came to out in the woods, the pitch black of his surroundings whipping him back to reality as one foot moved in front of the other without his say so. Undyne had ordered him to jog every day as part of his strength training, to build up his muscles. 'I DON'T HAVE MUSCLES,' was met with a firm 'Well you aren't gonna get any with that attitude!' so he had decided to do it anyway. If jogging was what Undyne wanted, then so help him God he was going to be the fastest in the Underground, but for now that dream was on the backburner. He frowned as he ran, one foot, then the other, then back again in a way that mimicked the steady thudding of his soul in his chest. He couldn't be a Guard whilst this was going on. The thought spurred him on.

  Papyrus arrived back at the house five minutes later, at six twenty AM exactly. Sans was there to greet him at the door, in his boxers wearing only one slipper.

  "so how'd that talk go," he said, flatly.

  Papyrus brought his hand up to his chin in consideration before catching on. "THIS TIME WILL BE BETTER. PROBABLY. I FEEL IT IN MY BONES."  
  
  Papyrus resumed his position at Sans' post, and once again, waited. He hadn't thought to check the time on his previous excursion, but if he were to guess it would be an hour before Frisk arrived.

  It sunk in, this was going to be a regular occurrence in his life.

  The next time he would make sure to leave a little early and pick up a book from the Library.  
  


  Frisk arrived right on time, feet padding through the virgin snow, the 'crunch crunch' growing in volume and echoing up the clearing. Very punctual, Papyrus thought. He could see them walking up the clearing, confusion lightly etched on their youthful features. Wasn't Sans usually here?

  "BESTIE," Papyrus boomed from his position at the end of dirt path, "I BET YOU'RE HAPPY TO SEE ME."

  "Oh my God," was all Frisk could say, realization washing over them like a riptide, "are you kidding me?"

  "THIS IS NO GENTLEMEN'S JAPE, FRIEND. YOU AND I ARE GOING TO SIT OURSELVES DOWN AND BRAINSTORM SOME IDEAS. THIS IS GOING TO BE QUITE THE THOUGHT-SHOWER. A RUMINATION-SITUATION." Papyrus winced a little as he felt his metaphor go off track. "THE SITUATION IS 'RAIN', IF YOU DIDN'T CATCH ON."

  Frisk made an incredulous, strangled noise, before choking out "Where is Sans?"

  "OH, HOLED UP IN HIS ROOM," Papyrus said, quietly dodging the part where it was his fault. Sans would thank him in the long run, after all, when this was all sorted out. "YOU CAN TALK TO HIM LATER. FOR NOW..." Papyrus took a step closer, his height framing him as far more intimidating than he intended to be. No matter how sweet he was, his appearance and stature was a constant reminder of death, bleached bones and hollowed sockets, towering and clad in inevitability. His constant cheery smile overstepped its normal bounds, and he was starting to look a little manic.

  "I'M GOING TO FIX THIS, AND YOU'RE GOING TO GIVE ME IDEAS."

  Faintly, so faintly, Papyrus was certain he heard a mans voice. It was raspy and weak, but he was sure.

  His arm itched.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the break, christmas is coming up and i've been busy getting jolly all over the place.


	20. Plate

  "I ALREADY HAVE A CUNNING IDEA."

  Papyrus was in front of Frisk now, tall and resolute. Sunlight trickled in from the cracks in the top of the mountain in fine ribbons that split and swirled like blood in water, hitting the snow around them. The light gleamed of off Papyrus' breastplate, blinding, like looking into torch. Frisk had never taken the time to really give Papyrus' armor the once over, but Sans mentioned that it was home-made, which was absurd. They certainly didn't know the in-and-outs of  metallurgy and smithing, far from it, just the tidbits they had picked up in school. They certainly knew it required a great deal of skill and time to craft a single piece, working and reworking obsessively. It looked like a functioning piece of battle attire, and if they were to guess, meant it probably wasn't a first attempt. The more likely situation was that Papyrus didn't make it at all, simply bought it from a tradesman and had Sans play along to bolster his ego.

  Frisk craned their neck up to look at Papyrus, who had his arms crossed, glancing at the area where his pauldrons met his curiass, the area usually covered by his scarf. There were small dents, coin-like in size, starting from the sides of his breastplate and moving unevenly around to his backplate, the surface warping outwards slightly, noticeable imperfections of what did actually appear to be an amateurs attempt. Frisk got the distinct impression it had been modeled on different pictures from different books, mashed and amalgamated to form something 'knightish' with no regard for practicality. Huh. So he had actually done it.

  Papyrus caught Frisk glancing at the warps and fine cracks in the plate as he was gearing up for his speech and swiftly brushed his scarf back over it.

  "How did you even-?"

  "AS I WAS WALKING THROUGH TOWN TO GET HERE, I HAD A BRAINWAVE. YOU ARE A CHILD. AND YOU ARE ABOUT EIGHT, CORRECT?"

  "Twelve, but you're not-" 

  "MY SOURCES TELL ME IT IS DEFINITELY YOU THAT'S RESETTING. NOT CONSCIOUSLY, BUT IT IS STILL YOU DOING IT, RIGHT?" Of course he was right, when wasn't he? _Sources_?

  "Yes, but you aren't listening-" God, he was frustrating, grandly posturing like an arrogant child. Frisk felt like they were back at school, his kindness only drawing more attention to his habit of steamrolling his way through conversations.

  "THEN I THOUGHT: POSITIVE REINFORCEMENT! SO I GOT YOU A LITTLE SOMETHING ON THE WAY HERE." He pulled his curiass forward a little, the leather straps straining, reached in from under his torso and delicately pulled out a very small plastic bag. "I HUNG IT ON MY RIB," he explained sheepishly, finally taking note of Frisk's confused expression. "THIS IS A THANK YOU FOR NOT KILLING ME THIS TIME."

  "You're trying to _condition_ me?" Their frustration was going to boil over, the only thing keeping it locked down was the unexpected rush of guilt.

  "HMM, NOT CONDITION, YOUR HAIR ALREADY LOOKS FINE. WHAT A WEIRD TERM TO USE. I'M THANKING YOU," he insisted. "MAYBE THIS CAN WORK IN THE LONG TERM. YOU DON'T KILL ANYBODY, AND YOU GET A REWARD! SO A PART OF YOU, DEEP DOWN, GETS USED TO IT, AND THEN BAM! NO RESETS, WE'RE ALL ON THE SURFACE, EVERYONE IS HAPPY."

  Wordlessly and with complete trust, Papyrus thrust the bag into Frisks hands. It smelled delicious.

  "And you think that will work?"

  "EH, IT PROBABLY WON'T, NO." Papyrus shrugged half-heartedly and for a brief second Frisk could see a glimmer of Sans. "BUT IT'S WORTH A TRY, ISN'T IT?"

  There was a lull and Frisk rushed to take advantage of it.

  "How is this-", they motioned, "even happening? Did you use some... I don't know, weird monster magic? This has never happened before." It might have, their memories were never concrete. But they were almost sure, almost.

  Papyrus brought up his arm and motioned to the inky black sliver.

  "Is that a rock?"

  "THOUGH YOU'RE WRONG, YOU AREN'T FAR OFF. YOU ARE CORRECT IN THAT IT IS A SOLID."

  "Then what is it?"

  "'HELLISH', ACCORDING TO SANS. IT'S JUST A PIECE OF THE CORE. KIND OF NEAT, ACTUALLY."

  "What's _wrong_ with it?"

  Papyrus brought his other hand up to clutch at his arm, "EXCUSE ME? WHAT DO YOU MEAN?"

  Frisk stared at it, the unnaturally dark metal not shining in the sunlight, sticking out against Papyrus' ivory bones. A primal instinct, something honed through millions of years of evolution, screamed 'wrong'.

  "Something is up with that thing."

  "THAT SHOULD BE THE CASE, I DON'T JUST GO AROUND CRAMMING NON-MAGICAL CHUNKS OF METAL INTO MYSELF. DON'T BE ABSURD."

  "Does it hurt?" It certainly looked like it did, wedged in between bone and prising apart the surface slightly with every movement.

  "HURT? NOT REALLY, IT'S KIND OF SCRATCHY. AND TICKLISH, ODDLY."

  "Metal isn't supposed to be ticklish. Is that because it's from the Core, because it's all magic-y?"

  "EVIDENTLY." Papyrus furrowed his brow as he mulled it over. "PROBABLY? I THINK."

  "Probably?" Frisk asked, incredulous. "Probably? You aren't sure?"

  "OH, I DON'T REALLY KNOW ABOUT THAT KIND OF STUFF, IF YOU'RE INTERESTED I WOULD ASK SANS. BUT HE'S NOT IN THE BEST MOOD."

  All Frisk could do was ball their hair up in their hands in an attempt to ground themselves, trying to keep their voice even. "I don't think he would be in the best mood, no. Do you not remember that conversation we had about that fact that _I can't stop_ -"

  "RIGHT AT THIS MOMENT. YOU CAN'T STOP RIGHT AT THIS MOMENT, BUT I CAN FIND A WAY."

  "Are you really _that_ arrogant?" Frisk bit back, anger finally cracking like a whip through ice. "Or is this just some attempt to make yourself look good? So you can finally get all the attention you could possibly want when you 'fix this', because wow, it's not as if every attempt to 'fix this' has made everything worse, has it? 'Oh Papyrus, look at how strong and cool and brave you are,' because that's what you want, right? But I gotta say, people that are actually feel like that _don't_ feel the need to announce it all the time! I can deal with this, but you've screwed over Sans and you've screwed over yourself so you could play pretend at being the big, strong hero." Frustration, scalding and untempered like molten iron poured from Frisk, breaking down everything it touched. "I mean, God, do you _really_ believe in yourself that much? Because I don't think-"

  "Yes, you're right. But I don't need to," Papyrus responded, measured in cadence and far, far quieter than he was comfortable with, voice cracking as he couldn't find it in himself to boom. "I just need to believe in you." The satin of his gloves squeaked under the pressure of his clenched hands, bones creaking. " _Bestie_." He took note of the feeling of his breastplate against his bones, trying to offset the feeling of nakedness.

  A heavy, heavy pause pressed down on them both, Papyrus one more comment away from crying and Frisk bubbling like a pit of sulphur.

  Frisk let out a sigh, using the motion to push out the anger. "Sorry. Look, I'm sorry, alright? This whole situation is pretty difficult."

  Papyrus wrenched his voice back to the way he normally kept it; shouting, grand, obfuscating. "YOU SAY THAT AS IF I DON'T ALREADY KNOW."

  "I... appreciate your trust in me, alright? Look, see, I'll do the 'positive reinforcement' thing." Anger had seeped like pus, leaving a gap that was quickly being filled with guilt, the need to placate. Frisk reached into the plastic bag, avoiding Papyrus' gaze. Their hand hit granulated sugar and pastry, and they pulled out a crushed, cold, Cinnamon Bunny.

  "I HAD ASSUMED YOU WOULD LIKE IT."

  "I do, just..." Frisk hesitated, "just not right now."

  "YOU CAN SAVE IT," Papyrus said, plainly, "WE DO HAVE ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD."

 

  Sans grunted in acknowledgement when Papyrus sat on the couch next to him, the counter-weight of the armor tipping the cushion up and breaking him out of his haze.

  "hey bro. how'd it go?" He knew, of course, but he wasn't going to be a dick about it.

  "NOT WELL, HONESTLY." Papyrus leaned forward in his chair, undoing the clasp to his pauldron, the leather straps scraping at his bones. He wish he had learned how to make chainmail instead of jumping straight to the external, more obvious pieces.  "NOT, UH. Not well," he choked.

  Sans turned to face Papyrus, concern blossoming in the pit of his gut. He had expected a rush of optimism. "whoa, hey pap, don't go gettin' all bummed out, that's my thing," Sans said trying to inject levity into the situation. It came across as a facsimile of himself, like something was wearing Sans like a suit.  It was happening again. It was happening again and there was nothing he could do about it, it was his own fault in the first place and he couldn't even complain because Papyrus would remember, he would always, always remember. "i thought you were covering my shift anyway, that ends at two. it's..." He craned on the couch to look at the wall clock, tactically leaning to make sure his boxers covered as much as possible. "only twelve."

  "Oh, I came back early. Sticking around seemed a little..." Papyrus strained to find the right word, the dullness in his sockets making him difficult to read, empty bones and wounded pride. "Pointless, I suppose."

  "no, it isn't." Sans shot back, thinking of what Papyrus would say to him when he got into a funk. "nothin's pointless, alright? nothing."

  "But you don't actually believe that," Papyrus said, mirroring Sans' concern with his own.

  "i don't have to. i mean, you're 'the great papyrus'! c-c'mon man, that's like your whole thing. you..." Sans was struggling, his apathy collapsing under the weight of his growing panic. "you can do it, fix it, do whatever you set your mind to, alright? you're _the great papyrus_ ," he repeated.

  "I am, apparently."

  "look, just because we're both getting fucked across time and space by the cosmic dick of the universe-"

  "AN ENTIRE LANGUAGE TO WORK WITH AND THAT IS THE METAPHOR YOU CHOOSE?" Papyrus replied indignantly, laughter rising up through his bones, not even noticing his voice evening out.

  Relief prickled through Sans. "what, not good enough? i've got worse ones."

  "THAT IS NOT A CHALLENGE."

  "oh, i might just take it as one. but just... don't give up, alright? nothin's pointless," he repeated.

  The way Papyrus' shoulders sat, uneven and slumped, emphasized their family resemblance.

  "I WON'T GIVE UP," Papyrus said, mostly to himself. "I _CAN'T._ "

  Sans, for the first time in a year, was inclined to say the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter in which papyrus gets called out super hard. 
> 
> Gonna take a couple days off for christmas, this will resume after. merry christmas!


	21. Giggle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who's ready for another round of 'chronological zig-zag'.

  The apartment was small, and it was damp, but it was home. The walls were bare, as was the thick concrete of the floor beneath them, an encapsulating cube of grey. It was freezing, all the time, the window in the kitchen was cracked and hastily taped together and the wooden door was rotting away to nothing. The pipes were old,  the power was expensive, the food was always a little off, but by God, it was home. Colorful half-deflated balloons littered the floor, left over from the day before. Sans meant to clean those up, but hey, that could wait.

  Papyrus left the house as he always did, with a little skip when he didn't think anybody was looking. This time it was with the bonus of being a whole year older, and with a new scarf.

  He did not return home in the same good spirits.

  "tough day, huh?"

  Papyrus shrugged weakly in response, dried tears crusted onto his cheekbones, ragged sweater torn and frayed at the ends from the struggle.

  "wanna talk about it?"

  Again, Papyrus shrugged weakly, the bones of his hands scuffed and scraped, every breath sending a trickle of pain through them.

  "want me to blow 'em up a little?"

  "WOW, DO NOT DO THAT."

  "i did say a little. i'm not gonna completely blow up a bunch of kids. god, pappy. just enough to freak 'em out, no big deal. buncha brats," he muttered.

  "PLEASE DON'T," he pleaded, " _NOBODY_ WILL BE BLOWING UP ANYONE."

  "if you say so."

  Sans scooted closer on the bed, swinging his arm to leave his side open in case Papyrus wanted a hug. Instantly, Papyrus clung to him like a life-raft, stuffing his face into folds of Sans' hoodie, crying undignified tears.

  "this is gonna stop, alright?  i'm not gonna let a bunch of dumb kids push you around. i mean you're ten, i thought this stuff would die down by now."

  Papyrus responded by jamming his face further into the worn blue hoodie, the course fabric filling up his sockets and nasal cavity. He hoped it would pour and fill and expand until he suffocated.

  "you could fight back, y'know."

  "NMMF, MFF MFF."

  "geez, you're really in there."

  Papyrus peeled his face away whilst still clinging on, hiccups shaking his ribs. "I SAID, N-NO, I CAN'T."

  "yeah, you could," Sans said, confusion settling in his eyes. "i've seen you practice your magic on trees. you're a natural. if those trees were people, let me tell you, they'd be fu-"

  Papyrus blinked up at him.

  "uh, boned. they'd be boned."

  "WAS THAT A PUN? I THINK I WOULD HAVE PREFERRED THE SWEARING."

  Sans watched as Papyrus became distracted, on the cusp of forgetting his beating, his sore hands. Sans was struck by an idea, mischief worming its way into his features.

  "i mean, if you insist." Sans leaned forward as if he were delivering the gravest news imaginable, as if the king had died, the humans had invaded and Mount Ebott was five minutes away from exploding. He brought his clasped hands to his rictus like he was praying.

  "shit," he said, solemnly.

  "OH MY GOD. ARE YOU DOING WHAT I THINK YOU'RE DOING." Papyrus  fought back the natural urge to giggle, he was mature now. Mature skeletons don't laugh at such juvenile things. He was still hiccuping. "T-THIS IS SO CHILDISH."

  "papyrus. papyrus, you don't understand. you gotta listen." Sans was doing his best to muster up a single, forced tear. He couldn't quite manage it, but he looked pained nonetheless. " _shit_."

  Papyrus felt his shoulders shake as he suppressed a fit of laughter, but he wasn't going to crack so easily. "YOU'RE AN ADULT, WHY DO YOU THINK THIS IS SO FUNNY?"

  "sixteen isn't exactly ancient. and besides, i'm not kidding, this is some really serious business, alright?"

  Papyrus sat up straight, scarf tucked under his chin as he leaned towards Sans, clearly playing along even if he were denying it, forgetting the pain in his hands.

  "BUSINESS?" He asked, with exaggerated weariness.

  "yeah," Sans said. He was so close to losing it, just giving up and laughing. "the business of..." He brought his face down until it clacked against the side of Papyrus' skull. "shit."

  They both fell backwards in free, juvenile laughter, roaring at something that wasn't even funny. Sans cast a glance over at his brother, who had forgotten why he was even upset in the first place. Through him tore love, a need to protect and an urge to murder the kids that had beat him up.

  Not that he would actually do that.

  "THANK YOU," Papyrus said once the river of laughter had started to run dry.

  "for what, saying 'shit' a bunch?"

  "NO. FOR CHEERING ME UP." His forcefully squared shoulders slumped as vulnerability poked through to the surface.

  "you didn't fight back at all, did you?"

  Papyrus darted his eyes to the side, the angle making it difficult to see. "I DID, LIKE YOU SAID I SHOULD."

  "nah, you didn't. your magic always leaves a little residue on your palms, like some funky soot. they're bone dry."

  Papyrus squinted before he sat up, remembering the pain. He turned to Sans with his brow furrowed. "HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT?"

  "i dunno. just did. got a knack for that magic stuff." Sans did his best to drop his voice a little, to make it a more comforting. "i'm not mad, alright? you're hardly the brawling type. but i'm not asking you to break their bones, nothing crazy. just enough to defend yourself. please, pap."

  "BUT WHAT IF I HURT THEM?"

  "they'd deserve it," Sans shot back, regret filling him when he caught sight of Papyrus' face. "ah, sorry, sorry." He held up his hands in appeasement, making a note to bite his metaphorical tongue in the future. "i'm upset, alright? these brats are just wailing on you."

  Papyrus let his fingers thread through the course fabric of the scarf and tugged on it. It smelled faintly of fabric softener and ketchup. Sans paid to have it laundered, he noticed, and the thought warmed him.  "MAYBE THIS IS JUST HOW THINGS ARE," he said, matter-of-factly. "MAYBE I DESERVE THIS? I KNOW I'M KIND OF WEIRD-"

  "the hell you are. those kids say that shit?" Sans prickled, phalanges popping from the tension he was putting on them. His hands were firmly on his femurs, clenching. It hurt. He didn't care.

  "NO, NO. I JUST THOUGHT-"

  "none of that's true. none of it. i want you to do me a favor, pappy; fake it till you make it."

  Papyrus brought his hand up to his chin, the dried tears irritating his bones, snot flecking from his nose. He felt unclean, disgusting. "FAKE WHAT, EXACTLY?"

  "confidence. any time you feel bad about yourself, any time you feel nervous," Sans brought his hand up to point at himself grandly, the gesture not coming naturally to him. "you say 'screw you! i'm great! i'm papyrus and i'm gonna do cool skeleton shit, to hell with everyone else!'. not word for word, but you get what i'm shooting for here."

  "BUT I WOULDN'T MEAN IT," Papyrus responded meekly.

  "that's the point," Sans said, "you will eventually. maybe not now, but you will."

  Condensation dripped from the window in Papyrus' bedroom onto the floor below, the pattering as consistent as the ticking of a clock. The noise would drive Sans mad, he thought. He was glad he was sleeping on the living room couch and that Papyrus got the room with the bed, even if his bones weren't. He certainly wasn't going to ask for a swap.

  "maybe you should have a title, like those knights from your stories."

  "LIKE LANCELOT?" Papyrus squealed, excitement peaking.

  Sans winced as he remembered that book, filled with words he didn't understand. He didn't know what an 'England' was. He didn't know what a 'Benwick' was. What he did know, however, was that Lancelot screwed the Queen and ignited a huge civil war that brought about the downfall of society. Sans was glad he had made a point to skip that part when he would read aloud. That would raise a lot of questions he couldn't find the energy to answer. 

  " _maybe_ not lancelot," was all he could say. "how about 'the great papyrus'? the two part combo, it's got your name and a description. perfect. job done."

  "THAT'S NOT-"

  Sans had grabbed a chewed pen from the bedside table before Papyrus could finish. "too late bro, i'm knighting you. you're stuck now. out of my hands."

  With a one-two, Sans bopped Papyrus on his shoulders with the pen. Papyrus stared back, incredulous.

  "DID YOU HAVE TO POKE ME WITH THE CHEWED PART?"

  "look, it's protocol, i don't make the rules," Sans said with the breezy authority of somebody that absolutely did. "and unfortunately, i don't think that knighting was good enough. gotta fix that."

  Papyrus scrunched his nose up in genuine consideration. "THAT'S NOT A THI-"

  He was cut off with a single hollow bonk on the forehead, the chewed pen lid hitting him then falling onto the carpet.

  "there we go. _now_ you're the great papyrus. nothing more dangerous than a botched knighting. kills hundreds every year, fun fact."

  Papyrus looked on, with soft features and admiration in his eyes. "THAT'S NOT FUN. IT'S NOT EVEN A FACT."

  Sans shrugged lazily in response.

  "SO EVERY TIME I FEEL BAD ABOUT MYSELF, ABOUT ANYTHING... I SHOULD JUST TALK ABOUT HOW GREAT I AM?"

  "yeah, pretty much."

  "AND THAT WILL HELP?" Papyrus asked, hope creeping into his high voice.

  "it will."

  "AND YOU DON'T NEED TO DO THIS BECAUSE YOU'RE ALREADY HAPPY," he declared triumphantly.

  "sure," Sans responded, a hint of strain wriggling it's way into his voice, "sure, lets go with that."

  "I HOPE I CAN BE AS HAPPY AS YOU, SOMEDAY."

  
 

  Papyrus arrived back at his usual time, without the new scuffs Sans was fearful of.

  "any trouble?"

  "UH... I WENT TO MAKE A BIG SPEECH ABOUT HOW GREAT I WAS A-AND HOW I'M AMAZING..." Papyrus trailed off, his voice lacking conviction. "AND I DID THAT ARM THING YOU DID YESTERDAY." He brought his hand up to point at himself, ulna crossing his chest, every gesture careful and measured. "BUT I GOT THE MOVEMENT WRONG AND SUMMONED MY MAGIC INSTEAD. I  ACCIDENTALLY HIT ONE OF THE KIDS IN THE FOOT. ARE YOU MAD?"

  "are they badly hurt?"

  "NO, JUST..." Papyrus felt his insides drop. "JUST SCARED. EVERYONE RAN AWAY BEFORE I COULD START TALKING."

  "then no," Sans beamed. "i ain't mad".

  Papyrus poked at his scarf again, the fabric comforting him. The silence was becoming awkward.

  "i just worry about you, is all."

  Papyrus looked up to his brother, at someone who wasn't a child but wasn't quite a man, and saw stress. Somebody that needed cheering up.

  "HEY SANS," Papyrus said with all the grim severity of a funeral director.

  Sans looked puzzled. "yeah?"

  " _SHIT_."

  They both fell into fits of giggles.

  "can't believe i got you to swear. i'm such a bad brother," he coughed out between childish crests of laughter.

  "I," Papyrus swept his scarf over his shoulders and puffed out his small chest, "THE GREAT PAPYRUS, THINK YOU ARE AN EXCELLENT GUARDIAN!"

  "thanks, bro." Sans dabbed at the beads of water in the corner of his sockets, proud. Papyrus went to say something but was cut off. "tears of laughter, heh."

  They both knew that was a lie.

  They didn't care.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which the skeletons laugh at swear words like mature people and are both riddled with insecurities. i hope you all enjoyed your christmas, and if you don't celebrate christmas then i hope you had an all around great december! ^_^


	22. Couch

  Papyrus was scrubbing the kitchen counter when it finally occurred to him that the universe tearing itself apart piece by piece, shred by shred, atom by atom was becoming more than a little irritating.

  He let out a noise caught somewhere between a guffaw and a sigh, the kind you make when you walk upstairs to fetch something and forget what it was in the first place, inelegant and frustrated. He stomped out into the living room, apron squeaking with each movement, threw himself face down onto the couch, swiped the nearest cushion to him and shrieked into it. Not the rousing, dignified shouting of a warrior, but a high, throaty howl that spilled over the plush fabric until it filled the entire house, heady with anger. It fell and rebounded and echoed until the room was nothing but Papyrus, and whilst he would have enjoyed that under normal circumstances, that very fact only served to draw out more noise, like a wounded animal.

  "papyrus," Sans said, cautiously "you doin' ok?"

  Papyrus quickly withdrew himself, glad he had suppressed the urge to flail his feet in anger, and made a note to check if someone was actually on the couch before he tossed himself onto it with his eyes squeezed shut. In this instance, that someone had been Sans, and it was very apparent he had suffered a hefty kick to the face.

  "OH MY GOD, SORRY! I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE TH-"

  "not answering my question, bro."

  Sans moved his hand away from his nasal bone and settled it back on his lap in what he thought was a relaxed manner, the involuntary welling of his sockets signifying that yes, this hurt, a lot.

  Papyrus flipped himself around on the couch to look at the ceiling, the top half of his body pivoting with his hands firmly grasping his newfound Screaming Cushion, whilst letting his legs fall where they may, which for now seemed to be over Sans' as he sat on the opposite end of the couch.

  "CAN THIS WAIT A MOMENT," Papyrus dully said, not moving, "I HAVE SOME VERY IMPORTANT BUSINESS TO ATTEND TO."

  Sans was silent for a moment before realizing that Papyrus was actually waiting for an answer.

  "i... sure? i gue-"

  Papyrus immediately began wailing into the cushion again, a loud shrill noise that came from the very pit of him, anguished.

  All at once he stopped, sat up, and delicately placed the cushion where he had found it, with Sans on the end of the couch dumbstruck.

  " _papyrus_. papyrus, what the fuck was that?" Sans sputtered.

  Sans watched as Papyrus began adjusting his scarf, smoothing it out and quietly tucking it back into his breastplate.

  "WHAT DO YOU MEAN?" He responded cheerfully.

  "that. that thing you just did. with the screaming. the thing."

  "I DO THAT SOMETIMES. IT HELPS ME FEEL BETTER."

  Sans was stock still, eyes scrunched so hard as to be clamped shut in confusion. "that didn't even sound like you, pap. i don't know what the noise you just made was, but god, it probably isn't healthy."

  Papyrus paused for a moment, his eyes shifting imperceptibly from left to right as he searched for a response. "IT'S BETTER THAN DRINKING," he chirped, hoping Sans would adopt a Screaming Pillow of his own.

  "wow. ouch." Sans scratched his chin to distract himself, letting the comment pass through him, stinging but temporary, like a scrape. "i meant what i said earlier." He furrowed his brow. "later? it kind of happens later, this stuff is a little hard to keep track of. that you're allowed to be upset." Sans shifted on the couch, listless but partially dressed in joggers, and motioned to the kitchen. "there is a middle ground between denial and being a total useless shitshow," Sans said, subconsciously motioning to himself.

  "IF I START TALKING ABOUT MY FEELINGS, WILL YOU STOP WORRYING?"

  God no. "yeah, i will. i'd say 'pinky promise' but i'm worried you'd start screaming at it."

  Papyrus actually chortled. "FINE THEN. I..." Papyrus felt something wash over him as he began to examine the situation, like a riptide pulling him downwards, panic, then nothing, in rapid waves. It was a weight around his ankle, 'weak', 'useless' and 'naive' chipped into its sides, of his own making. "THE GREAT PAPYRUS, AM UPSET."

  Instantly, he felt a little better. Not much. But it was enough.

  Sans could only wait, not wanting to jeopardize the moment, like he were cornering a skittish animal. "oh damn," he said, concern genuine but surprise less so, "tell me about it." Guilt, familiar, wrenching and so consistent it was a comfort, chewed on his bones like a dog.

  "IT'S JUST..." Papyrus began clicking his phalanges, and Sans was hit with deja-vu so strong it almost winded him. "I'M STARTING TO THINK I'VE MADE A HUGE MISTAKE. AND THAT I'VE MADE EVERYTHING WORSE. FOR EVERYONE."

  "you aren't starting to think that at all, are you? you've been thinking that since this started. after the first reset you stuck around for."

  Papyrus was thrown off by the comment and hastily scrambled to arrange his thoughts. "BE THAT AS IT MAY-"

  "god, papyrus..."

  "I CAN'T SHAKE THE FEELING THAT I'VE DONE SOMETHING TERRIBLE. YOU WON'T EVEN LEAVE THE HOUSE ANY MORE, FRISK SAID SOME THINGS. PERHAPS I'M JUST A BAD PERSON AND I DON'T KNOW IT. WOULD YOU TELL ME?"

  Sans did his best to look nonchalant, as even and as relaxed as he could be whilst regret ate its way up his ribcage to his skull. "i would tell you if you were being an asshole, yeah." That were true. Sans had called out Papyrus in the past over petty things.

  "THAT WASN'T WHAT I ASKED. I KNOW I CAN BE A GOOD PERSON, A GOOD SKELETON, IF I TRY. BUT WHAT IF I TRIED TOO HARD? WHAT IF I'VE MADE A HUGE ERROR, WHAT IF I'M THE MOST SELFISH MONSTER ALIVE, WHAT IF I'M JUST A BAD PERSON?"

  Papyrus looked detached, like he had clocked out of the conversation minutes ago. "IF WE'RE BEING OBJECTIVE, THINGS WOULD BE A LOT EASIER IF I WAS JUST..." A flit of something hit his eyes, Sans resisting the urge to heave at what he knew would come next. "NOT AROUND, I SUPPOSE." If the look on Papyrus' face said anything, it was that he hadn't quite realized the implication of his train of thought. He said it with the same tone of voice he used when he had to cancel plans with Undyne.

  "objectivity," Sans said, in awed horror, "is the worst possible way to go about this stuff. it's the worst. objectivity is good for scientific papers, that's it. that is it. the second you try and apply it to something as complex as this is where it all falls apart."

  "SO YOU'RE HAPPY WITH ME BEING HERE, WITH YOU?"

  "that ain't fair. you know that ain't a fair question, pap."

  Sans was considering commandeering the Screaming Cushion.

  "SANS," Papyrus said in his normal high tone, as if nothing had happened, "HOW LONG IS INFINITY EXACTLY? I KNOW IT'S _INFINITY_ , BUT IT'S HARD FOR ME TO ACTUALLY IMAGINE."

  Sans had his forehead propped up against his arm. He was a small man, and that was fine, but he felt minuscule. "it's a long-ass time, pap."

  "I THINK YOU'RE TRYING TO SPARE MY FEELINGS."

  "it's literally infinity, papyrus. infinity. it never, never ends. never."

  "AH. I HAD THOUGHT AS MUCH."

  They were both sat on the couch, opposite ends, slack limbs and white bones.

  "JUST BECAUSE EVERYTHING IS MEANINGLESS DOESN'T MEAN IT'S DEVOID OF MEANING COMPLETELY, DOES IT?"

  Sans cocked an eyebrow. "what?"

  "ON A COSMIC SCALE. THE BIG PICTURE. WE'RE JUST VERY BONY FISH IN A VERY BIG OCEAN."

  "if a fish is 'bony' it's already dead."

  "YEAH, I DIDN'T THINK THAT ONE THROUGH. BUT YOU GET WHAT I MEAN."

  Sans turned his body towards Papyrus, unsure of where the conversation was going. "i don't. never did the philosophy stuff."

  "WELL, NEITHER DID I. LUCKY I'M SO SMART AND GREAT, RIGHT?"

  Sans saw the grandeur, the sweeping gestures, the pomp, the vulnerability underneath and felt his heart break a little. Things had went too far. Perhaps it had went 'too far' years ago.

  "MAYBE THAT'S NOT SUCH A BAD THING, NOW THAT WE DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT THE BIG STUFF, WE CAN FOCUS MORE ON THE SMALLER THINGS, RIGHT? I THINK I'M RAMBLING-"

  The feeling that had taken up residence in his chest, thick and choking, had started to evaporate, and he found himself feeling a little lighter. He turned to Sans and found a dead husk, half of him obliterated by the white fog that absorbed his form like a sludge. Ah, a reset.

  "WOW," Papyrus said to himself. " _RUDE_."

  He quietly adjusted his scarf and turned his attention to the television, waiting for death.

  The patterns the dissolving matter formed were quite pretty, if he were honest. The carpet had been plucked and spun, like a part of a large tapestry composed impossibly of the wood beneath it. Twisting and turning, moving in and out, up and over and through itself into infinite spiraling fractals. He watched as his scarf stretched out before him before looping on himself like a large, slow moving cocoon. The black edges of the television, the thick, treated plastic, finally gave way and became simply representations of color, and its absence. He watched as they spun and danced, but oddly enough didn't dissolve in ribbons like the rest of the living room had. Come to think of it, he hadn't dissolved either.

  Papyrus watched with growing unease as the black ribbons became slabs, then the slabs became like thick tree branches that fit against one another, huge beaming gaps in the middle slowly filling with what looked like gas.

  A sickening crunch rang through the infinite white void that Papyrus was residing in as a face, static and unnatural, emerged from a split in the figure before slowly moving from the base to where a neck would be, staring all the while.

  "I am here," it rasped, an imitation of speech, grotesque and bubbling, "to offer you a deal."

  Papyrus was in too deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character you've all been waiting for is here!
> 
>  
> 
> The Screaming Cushion!


	23. Grassland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some themes in this chapter that might make people uncomfortable, a word of warning.

  It would be a fair, and quite truthful, to say that this plan had not gone the way Papyrus had intended it to. He had accepted that, fine droplets of apathy working its way through and over his bones like water before freezing, an armor against the absurd situation he had unintentionally slam dunked himself into. That armor, that forceful apathy, cracked and tumbled as he was presented with something that he couldn't have accounted for.

  "Papyrus, do you know who I am?"

  The white void, like endless static, pulsed and shifted slowly, fine wisps of color blossoming where he stood. The thin, silk-like tendrils shot forth like grasping hands until the ground was a perfect flat green, like sheet paper. Papyrus watched in awe as very real blades of grass burrowed unnaturally out of the ground like worms, picking up the color and dragging it like a knife over a paint palette. It moved in waves, though there was no wind.

  Papyrus let his gaze fall back to the monster in front of him, who was dripping with what looked like tar, thick globules falling off his form in fist-sized tumors before being reabsorbed by his trunk. The monsters voice was crisper now, clearer and dropping in its pitch. "It is a very simple question. And one I wou- "

  "YOUR VOICE," Papyrus interrupted, "IT'S CONJURED."

  "As is everything around us. That should hardly be your first concern."

  There were shrubs now, dotted haphazardly, bare except for tiny buds of leaves, emerald against the impossible white above them.

  "YOU COULD HAVE ANY VOICE IN THE WORLD. ANY PERSON YOU'VE EVER MET, OR YOU COULD JUST MAKE ONE UP. WHY, OUT OF EVERYONE, DID YOU PICK SANS'?"

  That gave him pause. "I am not sure, to be perfectly honest. It certainly was not intentional. Perhaps you would prefer it--", gurgles, like the bubbling of a sulfur pit, replaced the uncanny tones before coalescing once again. " --IF I SPOKE LIKE THIS, HMM? YOU DO SEEM TO ENJOY THE SOUND OF YOUR OWN VOICE. DO YOU FEEL MORE AT EASE?"

  Papyrus forcefully puffed out his chest, doing his best to keep his shaking to a minimum. There was only room for one Papyrus, was what he told himself.

  "I DON'T LIKE THAT," he said politely. "IT WOULD BE NICE IF YOU WOULD SPEAK THE WAY YOU NORMALLY DO. IF YOU WOULDN'T MIND." His eyes moved slightly from left to right as a name just on his periphery, just out of reach was revealing itself. "...GASTER?"

  Gaster let out a trill of delight with a voice that was wholly unfamiliar. "Ah, what a novelty it is to hear my name again! The world seemed to forget about me. Sans certainly didn't. And now I doubt that you will. Magic will do that."

  Papyrus felt a little of his trepidation leave whilst still reeling from what was unfolding before him. Thick cracks, like those in plate metal, ran across the infinite white above them, sea-blue seeping through like ooze.  There was a guest in his 'home', enigmatic and inchoate in form, but a guest nonetheless. Papyrus would have usually offered a visitor a snack. That didn't seem to be an option.

  The cracks above them shattered until the sky was nothing but perfect blue, smudged with cloud and incandescent in its glory, a huge sphere of light dragging Papyrus' gaze towards it. Was it large, but far away? Or was it small and nearby? Perhaps Papyrus could reach out and grab it.

  "IS THIS THE SURFACE? OH MY GOD!" Papyrus jumped in excitement, the long legs lifting him higher to look over the impossible grassland. "OH MY GOD-- THIS IS, HOW DID--"

  "It isn't, not really. Quite convincing, isn't it? Magical ability runs in the family, it seems."

  All at once, Papyrus stopped, but still allowed himself to cling on to the thrill. It was wonderful, and he had missed it. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN?"

  "As we speak, you are dying. Rotting away, bones crumbling to dust. I have plucked you out of your body so that we can speak. Tell me, does this landscape not look familiar to you?"

  The air was perfectly still, and Papyrus was sure that if he needed to breathe to survive then it would be impossible. He looked out over the clearing, magnificent sunlight warming his bones. There was a settlement, human, if he were to guess, on the horizon, faded and grey in the distance. He brought his arm up to shade his eyes for a better look (oh, what an experience!) and felt the weight of a full suit of armor on his body, broad shoulders and full padding around his spine, mail and plate and wonderful ornamentation.

  He felt a pang of disappointment. "I MADE THIS, DIDN'T I?"

  "Indeed you did. I would be envious, were I still alive. An empty space and all the magic I could give you, and you create a landscape. Very impressive, even if scraped from a fairy-tale."

  "WHY?"

  "Because I wanted to see what would happen."

  Gaster trundled closer, base groping at the ground beneath him, undulating like jellied ink.

  Papyrus leaned on his back-foot, before reminding himself that running was a pointless exercise. The mail sat unevenly on him, fine circlets catching on his bones and tugging.

  "And I think you'll find my terms very agreeable. A favor, almost. After what happened to Sans, I owe him that much."

  Papyrus brought his arms down to his sides, gauntlets heavy and tempered. Something akin to cautious optimism ran through him. "A FAVOR?"

  "Yes."

  Birds chirped in the trees, but couldn't be seen. It occurred to Papyrus that he had heard birdsong before, when Snowdin was silent and the chirps would ring down from the top of the mountain. He had never seen them, not really.

  Papyrus took a step closer, until they were only feet away.

  "YOU CAN STOP THE RESETS? I _KNEW_ I COULD FIX THIS, I KNEW--"

  "I cannot." Gaster lifted his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug, casual and uncaring. "I have become the most powerful monster to ever live, in any instance of any timeline. But I am not human, and I never will be."

  "...OH." Papyrus coughed sheepishly.

  "And I cannot remove myself from you nor Sans."

  The unease, constant and pressing, was amplified in that sentence as Papyus felt at the armor on his left forearm, certain he could feel it moving. Wriggling, pulsing, thinking, alive.

  "What I can do," Gaster continued, like he were addressing someone very stupid, "is make them inert."

  Papyrus roared with glee, hysterical, a cacophony of relief. "THANK YOU, THANK YOU SO MUCH! THIS IS AMAZING, THANK YOU!" He lunged forward to scoop Gaster into a hug and watched as he trickled through the gap in his arms like treacle until completely withdrawing.

  "Please do not do that."

  "OH, SORRY."

  The grass was luminescent in its color, flowers dotting the landscape, like spatterings of paint on an expansive canvas. Papyrus could smell wheat.

  "It is fair, isn't it? An accidental inclusion and a deliberate freeing."

  Papyrus moved easily in his armor, letting his long red cape, scarf sewn into it, billow behind him. "I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS..." He brought his hand up to clatter against his chest, the noise ringing out like a war drum. "WANT TO HEAR EVERYTHING!"

  "Very simply; one person was drawn into this against their will, and as such, I will let one go. You, Papyrus, have the benefit of choosing."

  The smattering of clouds grew across the blue sky until there was nothing but grey.

  " _EXCUSE_ ME?" Papyrus choked.

  "I believe you heard me perfectly well. Did you not wonder why I came to you instead of Sans? He's been ground down, like wheat. You, I think..." A thin hand, composed of cracked bone, emerged from Gaster and settled on his chin. "Still have the capacity to be selfish. I think you are better equipped to make the decision."

  Papyrus was pacing, something hanging in the air that he couldn't pinpoint. It was going to rain. "I AM NOT SELFISH."

  "I didn't say you were, merely that you still had that capacity."

  Papyrus whipped around to say something, but could only make a pleading noise, contrasting his armor and the way it sat on him. "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? WHY CAN'T WE BOTH JUST GO BACK TO THE WAY THINGS WERE? M-MAKE SPAGHETTI, AND WATCH TV AND DO..." Words were failing him. "COOL-PEOPLE THINGS!"

  "Because", Gaster rasped, delighted, "what you both offer is something greater than magic. _Physicality_. In the very long time I was alive, I never felt." He whipped his hand against the side of his own face in a way that made Papyrus wince reflexively. "That did not hurt. Pain, pleasure, nothing. But through Sans-- through you-- I can. Does your arm not itch? Is it not _rapturous_?"

  Papyrus could only stand there, aghast, wanting to tear his own arm off. He felt infringed apon, something that markedly wasn't himself happily taking up residence.

  "WHAT _ARE_ YOU?" Papyrus wheezed.

  "Something that simply wants to sit and observe, to be alongside. Scientifically, I believe the correct term is a 'parasite'."

  Papyrus clasped his gauntlet over his mouth.

  "I do not know why you look so upset. This has always been the case. Oh, to eat, to drink! How I wish you had a gullet, to have organs, wonderful, visceral and temporary! How can you be unhappy, when you can do these things? To stand in the snow, to feel the cold, to marvel at the forms of others, a wonderful fluttering in your chest, the love you have for Sans! You invited the shrapnel into yourself, I have been there for all of it, _all of it_."

  Papyrus wanted to heave.

  The grassland around them was long since dead.

  "And Sans! My, what a gift he has! Such--"

  "PLEASE. _PLEASE_ , **PLEASE** STOP."

  His armor was rusted, rough and the color of blood as the metal shrieked around him with every movement.

  "... Ah, did I get carried away? I am sorry, today is filled with novelties. But whatever decision you make, I trust it will be the right one. You said that you didn't want to be around, didn't you? This is your chance, to have things go back to how they used to be. This is my gift to you. Sans or yourself, it is your choice. Take as long as you need, only one second has passed outside of this illusion, and I can assure you; you are dying very slowly."

  And with that, he evaporated like smoke, leaving Papyrus in the middle of a very dead clearing. Papyrus wanted to crack open his armor like a walnut and scrape the marrow from the inside of his bones, maybe then he would feel clean.

  The Greatest Good was always an impossible goal, unattainable. That was in its very nature. The Greater Good, however, was very much in reach, and he cursed it.

  Sans would want Papyrus to be set free, that much he was sure of. It was the right and just thing to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaster shows up and starts creeping all over the place; the chapter.


	24. Rust

  "I DON'T THINK YOU'RE A VERY HAPPY PERSON."

  Papyrus was sat in the middle of the clearing, endless rolling hills in front of him, vast white expanse behind. He knew Gaster could hear him, even if he whispered. Maybe even if he thought. God, he hoped not, that his thoughts could be his and his alone. The sun hung low, dead grass underneath him, yellow like hay. The pleasant blue sky he had conjured warped and stained like burnt glass until it cast a sickly glow, like watching a fire through a plume of ash. He couldn't see the settlement from where he was sitting, knees tucked underneath him. His armor pressed into his joints, rusted beyond all belief, scraped and peppered with gashes like it had seen many, many wars, but from the looks of it maintained like it would see many more. The padding pressing into his knees was warm, and unpleasantly hot, dry grass peeking through and irritating him. He fumbled at the brooch that held up his cape before it finally came slack, picking up the cloth and bunching it underneath his legs, taking special care not to dirty the part that was originally his scarf. It looked cheap. As far as cost went, it probably was. But there it lay, a part his subconscious mind dragging into existence, frayed and torn, but sewn into plush velvet.

  "YOU MUSTN'T BE, IF YOU ACT LIKE THIS."

  Papyrus felt his left arm itch and crushed his horror, steeling himself for a response. There was none.

  "I WOULDN'T BE HAPPY EITHER, IF I COULDN'T FEEL ANYTHING. IF I COULDN'T ENJOY A SIMPLE HOME-COOKED MEAL AND A HUG. I THINK I WOULD BE AN ANGRY, SELFISH PERSON THAT WOULD PROBABLY DO ANGRY, SELFISH THINGS. I WOULD BE SPITEFUL BECAUSE WHAT ELSE COULD I BE?"

  He unclasped the gauntlet on his left hand expecting to see an impossible mess, writhing, glistening, ink black and non-euclidean, something that would grow and grope and paw at him without his say-so. What he saw was simply his arm, long bony fingers and a cracked ulna, tiny sliver of metal poking out like a worm in the dirt. 

  The sky was red like wine, deep, rich and sickening. That ball in the sky was gone, it had probably rolled over the hill. Were that the case, it would have rolled far, far away by now. He hoped it would roll back.

  "WHEN I FOUND OUT WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN, WHAT YOU STILL ARE, DOING, I HATED IT. AND I'LL ADMIT, I THINK I HATED YOU, TOO. A-AND I THINK, SOME PART OF ME THAT I WANT TO IGNORE STILL DOES. BUT I SHOULD, BECAUSE YOU'RE A BAD PERSON THAT'S DOING A BAD THING TO US AND I DON'T THINK ANYONE COULD BLAME ME. BUT I DON'T WANT TO HATE YOU. I DON'T WANT TO HATE ANYTHING! I THINK, DEEP DOWN, YOU CAN BE A GOOD PERSON. I THINK, IF YOU REALLY TRIED, I MEAN _REALLY_ TRIED, YOU CAN!"

  His voice rang out across the valley, cracked but hopeful, and was met with a silence that squirmed and seethed.

  "I'M NOT SURE _HOW_ YOU CAN STOP, EVEN IF YOU MAKE THE SHRAPNEL INERT. I'M NOT VERY GOOD WITH THE THEORY OF MAGIC..." Papyrus let himself trail off, maybe Gaster would interject? From the little Papyrus could parse of mentions and memories, it was his field of study.

  Gaster did not respond. Too transparent? Papyrus took in a long breath, ribs expanding, one, two, three, steadying, four, five, six, suppress the anxiety, seven. All at once he let out the breath with a puff, the motion distracting his nerves.

  "... I THINK, ONCE THIS IS OVER, WE COULD BE FRIENDS."

  Hope blossomed in Papyrus' chest, as did the dead flower to his left, bright and yellow and cheerful, set against the sky like a small hearth. The silence was less crushing, now that he had said that, even if there was no response.

  "I THINK SANS WOULD BE HAPPY TO SEE YOU. BUT I DON'T THINK HE'D BE HAPPY ABOUT THE UM... BEING A PARASITE PART..."

  Papyrus felt a jolt of pain in his face and tentatively brought his hand up to feel, like a child in the dark. There were gouges and small gaps in the bones of his left cheek, none quite deep enough to perforate all the way through, the edges smoothed by time and honeycomb-like structures bridging the gaps, the result of amateurish healing magic. His bones were greyed, not the bleach white they were normally, and he was certain it wasn't the lighting. Were life to continue normally, he would be twenty-one, but here he was older and he hadn't noticed. Why did he imagine himself like this?

  He wasn't a brave knight protecting the people from evil here, a beacon of the Guard, shaking off its original purpose of slaying every human. His scars were defensive and the holes that peppered his cheek last-ditch attempts at staying alive. Here, in this place, he was a young man fighting for a cause he didn't know and was going to, presumably, die for. He would be cut down without fighting back then thrash and die, calling out for Sans all the while. That was what being a knight was, that was what war was. No gallantry, no romance, no adoration, no showers of kisses, just standing until you couldn't anymore.

  Choking back his self-imposed dejection, he pressed on. He straightened his back and settled his hands on his knees, formal, like he were meeting someone for the first time.

  "IF YOU GOT TO KNOW US, REALLY KNOW US, THEN YOU MIGHT WANT TO BE FRIENDS TOO! SANS ISN'T HERE TO SPEAK FOR HIMSELF, SO WITH THAT BEING SAID..." Papyrus took in a long, deep gulp of air, until it filled his bones, then out, whistling past his teeth. Slowly, precariously, he got up from his knees until he was stood, jangling armor, weaponless. Suddenly, the dead valley was filled with noise, raucous, triumphant and so very, very loud. "MY NAME", he proclaimed, thought he didn't need to for Gaster to hear, "IS PAPYRUS!" He let his bare hand clatter against the his cuirass, so damaged it left a small crater. No matter, he didn't care. "AND I LIVE WITH MY BROTHER SANS! WE DON'T HAVE SURNAMES, AND WE DON'T HAVE PARENTS!" He shouted it not as a plead for pity, but simply as the fact it was. "WELL, I MEAN, WE DO HAVE PARENTS, OBVIOUSLY, AND WE PROBABLY HAVE SURNAMES, AND ALTHOUGH I DON'T KNOW ABOUT THEM, IF THEY'RE CONNECTED TO ME THEN THEY HAVE TO BE PRETTY COOL! EVER SINCE I WAS A CHILD AND I WOULD WATCH THE GUARD MARCH THROUGH THE STREET UNDER OUR APARTMENT, I KNEW  I WANTED TO BE A PART OF IT. GROWING UP, I DIDN'T--"

  His voice cracked.

  "... I DIDN'T REALLY HAVE ANY FRIENDS. I WAS USUALLY THE ONE CLEANING WHEN SANS WAS OUT WORKING HIS JOBS, BEFORE HE STARTED AS AN ASSISTANT- WHY AM I TELLING YOU THIS PART?" He laughed, uneven and shaky, then coughed and resumed his rant, like the whole valley were filled with a silent audience just waiting to applaud. "SO I USED TO READ. A LOT. EVERY DAY, FOR HOURS UNTIL SANS WOULD MAKE ME DO SOMETHING ELSE. AND I KNOW THAT YOU'RE ALONE, AND I-I..."

  Stiffen the shoulders, puff out the chest, speak from the diaphragm. That last one would be difficult. Imagine you had a diaphragm (whatever that is), and then speak from that. Was it some kind of megaphone?

  "I KNOW YOU MUST BE MISERABLE. BECAUSE I WAS TOO. I CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING WORSE THAN BEING ALONE. IF I DIDN'T HAVE SANS, GROWING UP, I DON'T KNOW IF-"

  Echoes, like memories, faded, rebounded and hit him. The sky was different now, a lovely pink tinge to the horizon with spatterings of yellow. He had abandoned the idea of actually communicating with Gaster effectively, but now he was shouting and he didn't quite know why.

  "... BUT I DON'T NEED TO BE MISERABLE BECAUSE I HAVE SANS, I HAVE UNDYNE, I HAVE FRISK!"

  He picked up his discarded gauntlet off the grass beneath him, the yellow straw pushed up by new buds. He didn't put it on, just used it as an extension of his wild gestures, left to right and flailing, limp then wild.

  "AND YOU KNOW WHAT? I CAN DO ANYTHING! I-I CAN DO ANYTHING I SET MY MIND TO BECAUSE I'M A STRONG PERSON, AND IF KEEPING SANS HAPPY MEANS I NEED TO WAIT OUT THE REST OF ETERNITY THEN FINE, I'LL DO IT A HUNDRED TIMES OVER! BECAUSE I'M THE GREAT--!"

  He clattered the gauntlet against the ground, metal shattering with a loud crack, partially muffled by the leather it was strapped to. " _FUCKING_ \--!"

  He swung out his arms to restless infinity and roared, " ** _PAPYRUS_ _!_** " Hope, blinding and furious pulsed through him and he took note of the tears running down his face, how grand it was to feel.

  He was breathing as if he had run a marathon, and from the thrill flooding him he was almost convinced he had.

  "That was entirely pointless."

  Papyrus swung around, wild glint in his eye, glee in his face, red armor framing him as the figure of death he really was. Gaster was there, as still and inky-black as ever.

  "I know everything about you in every possible capacity. Any thought you've had, any fleeting glimpse, everything, likes, dislikes, hobbies, sexuality, everything you've ever done, I know of. Tell me, what was the point of that little tirade? Did you think you would actually get through to me with that childish rant?"

  "YOU MATERIALIZED," Papyrus beamed, "TO SPEAK TO ME. I THINK I'VE DONE PRETTY WELL."

  Gaster paused.

  "AND IF YOU KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT ME, LIKE YOU SAID, THEN YOU KNOW I'M BEING SINCERE ABOUT MY OFFER. AND I THINK, IN SOME WAY, YOU DO CARE ABOUT US."

  Gaster went to dismiss him, the tantrum of a man that was scarcely grown, wildly arrogant.

  "BECAUSE IF YOU FEEL THINGS THROUGH SANS AND I THE WAY I THINK YOU DO, THEN THAT MEANS, EVEN IN SOME SMALL CAPACITY, YOU CARE ABOUT US THE WAY WE CARE ABOUT EACH OTHER."

  The sky was blue, blue like brooch on the cape, blue like his magic, blue like the shallow pools of Waterfall. If he were never to see the surface, then fine, this would be enough!

  Gaster blustered, infuriated.

  "BECAUSE WHY ELSE WOULD YOU OFFER ME THIS 'DEAL'? YOU COULD HAVE LEFT US BOTH IN LIMBO, FOREVER. BUT YOU DIDN'T. YOU RESPECT SANS, DON'T YOU? AND ALTHOUGH YOU LOOK AT ME LIKE I'M AN IDIOT--"

  "It's because you are, you _stupid_ boy."

  "YOU COULD HAVE LEFT US BOTH. YOU COULD HAVE EXPERIENCED LIFE AND THE THINGS IT INVOLVES THROUGH US FOREVER, LIKE I USED TO DO WITH MY BOOKS, BUT YOU CUT THAT CHANCE IN HALF. AND I STILL THINK YOU'RE A BAD PERSON, BUT NOW I REALIZE THERE'S SOME GOOD IN YOU."

  Papyrus stood proudly, smiling and tall, knowing that if here were to be dismissed and be cast back to the resets the he had at least tried. The wind, rushing and warm like blood whipped at his back.

  Gaster only looked Papyrus up and down, white pips of light flitting from top to bottom. "Have you made your decision?" He said, quieter than he had intended.

  "I HAVE."

  "And?"

  "LET SANS GO. HE'S HAD ENOUGH."

  There was a long pause as Papyrus expected some grand magic, a huge gesture to whip him to reality in a flurry of color.

  "That isn't what he would want."

  "I KNOW."

  "What about the 'Greater Good', hmm? Your daydreams?"

  Papyrus brought his hand to his chest, his armor glistening and blindingly polished, the rust torn off like sheet paper. He felt his age.

  "IF IT MEANS LEAVING SANS TO ROT THEN SCREW IT!"

  "Fine then." A simple bowing of the head and a clicking of the fingers and the deed was done. "There will be gaps in his memory he will rush to fill. Whatever you say he will believe."

  Oh God, it was as simple as that. "BECAUSE OF THE MAGIC, RIGHT?"

  "No, actually," Gaster said, "because he loves you and will trust whatever you tell him."

  Already Papyrus could feel himself dissolving like powder in water, not painfully, but it still felt strange.

  "THANK YOU. AND EVEN IF YOU'RE A CREEPY... STALKING... WEIRDO PERSON, I THINK YOU'LL DO THE RIGHT THING. MAYBE NOT NOW, MAYBE NOT SOON, BUT EVENTUALLY. I BELIEVE IN YOU!" With free, easy laughter he was gone and the landscape he had conjured died with him.

  Gaster was left in the waning world, not feeling quite as gleeful as he had expected himself to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's your answer folks! Should I bump this up to a mature rating? There isn't any kind of explicit sex, but it's alluded to, so I'm not too sure. 
> 
> My thinking was that if Papyrus would try and befriend Flowey of all people and then tells you you can do better when you literally murder him, then his tolerance for bullshit must be stupid-high. Though he should watch his language...


	25. Jog

  All-in-all, Sans felt pretty good.

  Not on top of the world, nothing major that warranted celebration had happened; no weddings, no births, and he certainly hadn't picked up that sock in the living room. It was simply another day in Snowdin; he would wake up,  get dressed, think about making breakfast, realize he couldn't muster up the energy to do so, set off for work and pick up something to eat from Grillby's on the way to his post. Today felt like a chili fries kind of day.

  But good God was it cold. Sans sat up from his bed, blearily grumbling expletives as he gathered his energy to make the gargantuan trek from his mattress to his open window. Who leaves a window open in a town called Snowdin because they couldn't be bothered to get up to close it? The answer, of course, was Sans, because the blanket was warm and theoretically that should have been enough to tide him over. It was not and there was a thin veneer of frost on the grimy carpet, crunching underfoot with each step. One solid heft and the window was shut. He was sure he had left the heating on which meant that the power bill was going to be astronomical and Papyrus was probably going to combust in shrill fury. Damn. 

  Sans sneaked a glance at the clock. Six-twenty in the morning? No. Screw that. He was going back to sleep.

  He slipped into unconsciousness with profound ease, but couldn't quite shake the nagging feeling that he was forgetting something. He had probably left another window open in the house.

* * *

  
  Papyrus came to out in the forest, feet rhythmically padding against the ground as he made his way home in a well memorized pattern; left, right, left, right, watch for that branch, left, don't catch your foot on that rock, right, flowing and effortless, long graceful strides. Oh, how he couldn't wait to get home and see Sans, to see if he was half-asleep and grumpy, how wonderful that would be. He took notice of the physical sensations that assailed him, something he had always taken for granted, something he had tuned out over his years of living not out of apathy, out of practicality. He couldn't count every pulse of his soul and he couldn't count every click of his bones, but given what he had learned it felt wasteful not to at least try. The snow stuck to his sockets in globs, left, his joints were beginning to hurt, right, his armor jangled with each step, left, the wind whipped past the tops of his partially exposed hipbones, right.

  He focused on his love for Sans.

  Left.

  He had hoped that these emotions were getting through to Gaster, now that he was forcing them.

  Right.

  Papyrus reminded himself to put away that Mettaton figure, the one with the flat rectangular body but oddly luscious legs. It would be a shame, being unable to ogle it with its pretty pink heels and sharp edges but since _someone_ had decided to shack up in his body he had made the decision to quietly remove anything he found 'appealing' from his life until the situation was resolved and he could go back to his old 'habits'. There were many things he was willing to share in an effort to get through to Gaster. That aspect of himself was not one of them. 

  Left.

  Ah, he would need to swap shifts with Sans, he couldn't risk Frisk coming through and saying something unintentionally.

  Right.

  Boy, his legs were tired.

  Left.

  How was he going to plug the gaps in Sans' memory? If he said something regarding Gaster and what happened at the Core would his head explode? Was that how the magic worked? Would Sans just blindly believe whatever he said? He was going to have to lie, which didn't sit comfortably with him. He was The Great Papyrus, or at least Papyrus the Great. Papyrus the Liar didn't sound as noble. Perhaps Papyrus the Great Liar?  No, no, that didn't work.

  Right.

  Papyrus the Wise? Gah, that made him sound old. Papyrus the Manipulator? God no, it made him sound cruel.

  Left.

  Was that what he was doing? Wasn't that something only evil people did for their own selfish reasons? Reveling in his own emotions to get through to Gaster, lying to Sans, asking Frisk to play along?

  Right.

  But if it was for their benefit then it was a good thing.

  Thud.

  Papyrus let out a huff of irritation as he rubbed his sore knee and reminded himself not to zone out when he was running. The tree stump had crept up on him, clearly.

  He would arrive back at the house in a couple of minutes.

* * *

  
  "mornin' pap."

  "IT'S TWO-THIRTY IN THE AFTERNOON."

  Sans rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the base of his palm. "geeze, really? at least it's my day off."

  "NO IT'S NOT, THAT'S WEDNESDAY. IT'S TUESDAY TODAY."

  "oh goddammit."

  Papyrus felt delighted, sat on that couch watching Sans trudge down the stairs. It had actually taken effect. There was a weariness to Sans' bones, but through having overslept rather than being crushed under the weight of reality. Sans was waiting on the stairs expectantly.

  "you uh... aren't gonna say anything?"

  Papyrus blinked, brought back to the situation at hand.

  "WHY WOULD I? SLEEPING IN ISN'T THE WORST THING IN THE WORLD."

  "so you wouldn't be mad if i _maybe_ left the window open last night even though you told me not to?"

  Papyrus looked at his brother, confused. "... NO?" Did he say that? It was difficult to remember, it was such a mundane request, though it did sound like him. "EVERYONE MAKES MISTAKES."

  Sans let out a low whistle, dressed in a stretched t-shirt that came down to his knees. "geeze papyrus, what's gotten into you? you feelin' okay?"

  "YES, I FEEL FINE. I DON'T NAG THAT MUCH, DO I?"

  Sans padded down the remaining steps, stretching his arms at the bottom. Ahh, that was better, he had slept on them and they were numb. "eh, nag is kind of a strong term. but you said it, not me."

  Papyrus was sat up straight on the couch, with a look in his eyes that Sans couldn't quite place. Eagerness? It was probably Papyrus being Papyrus.

  "ah, i dunno how you can do that. sitting up straight makes my back hurt."

  They were talking about something that wasn't important, something that didn't involve time, space and the inevitability of death. Papyrus felt fantastic.

  "THAT'S BECAUSE YOU SLOUCH SO MUCH. IT'S LIKE A GIFT. YOU'RE LIKE..." Papyrus' heart was fit to burst, he couldn't find a good way to finish that thought. "CAPTAIN SLOUCH."

  Sans looked up at Papyrus, head dipped, white pips from under a skeletal brow, serious. The look he would sometimes get when it all became too much. Papyrus felt his heart sink. "papyrus," he said with great severity, "lets not say things we can't take back; captain slouch? give me some credit, i would be at least a major. i didn't spend my whole life sitting badly just to be captain. c'mon."

  Papyrus laughed, not out of humor, but out of relief. "BE CAREFUL CALLING YOURSELF 'MAJOR', I THINK I CAN HEAR UNDYNE SCREAMING FROM HERE."

  "i know you're joking but you're probably right. how's her house, anyway? i heard about that."

  Papyrus felt a jolt of panic as he scrambled to sort through his memories. What happened to Undyne's house before he had made himself aware? He knew something had.

  Sans let his gaze wander, thinking out loud. "who microwaves a whole pot? i mean, what the fuck, right?"

  Ah. That.

  "THE FIRE ONLY GOT AS FAR AS THE COUNTER BEFORE SHE SMOTHERED IT."

  Sans was sat on the couch, melting into it. "did she punch it out?" He joked.

  "YEAH! BUT IF YOU ALREADY KNEW THE ANSWER, WHY DID YOU ASK?" Papyrus responded, missing Sans' tone.

  Sans could feel his head loll forward like it were being dragged, eyes drooping until they shut. He could recover from his sleep with a nap. That would help.

  "SANS!"

  He whipped his head back up at the noise, bracing himself for a tirade about how lazy he was.

  "I, UH. I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH. I JUST FEEL YOU SHOULD KNOW."

  Sans leaned forward, tiredness leaving him and worry replacing it. "dude, are you dying? because i'm gonna be super pissed if you're dying. that would be a dick move."

  Papyrus felt a sting in his chest. That comment cemented Sans' freedom in his mind, that he could be so brusque about the subject because _of course_ that would never happen. "NO SANS, I AM NOT DYING. I INTEND ON LIVING A VERY LONG TIME, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. THERE WOULD BE NOBODY AROUND TO DO COOL SKELETON THINGS AND QUITE FRANKLY THAT WOULD BE A CRIME, THE GUARD WOULD SHOW UP AND ARREST MY REMAINS. BUT THEY COULDN'T. BECAUSE I WOULD BE DUST. AND I'M PRETTY SURE YOU CAN'T ARREST THAT," Papyrus said, playfully.

  Sans just stared back, and if he had been born with the capacity, jaw slack. "wow, uh. morbid. way to take that to a dark place, bro. you sure you're feelin' okay? you can tell me anything, i'll understand."

  Papyrus was too relieved to feel irritated. Sans would be fine. That was what mattered. "I ALREADY TOLD YOU I'M FINE. WHY?"

  Sans looked him up and down, head still but pupils moving. "i dunno. you seem a little... off? did something happen on your run?"

  "WHAT? NO. IF SOMETHING BAD HAPPENED DO YOU REALLY THINK I WOULDN'T TELL YOU ABOUT IT?"

  And so the lies began, and though Papyrus knew their purpose they chewed at him. But he would do it. Always.

  Sans furrowed his brow, eyes looking down in serious consideration. Papyrus took the time to study his features and noticed that he looked younger, his sockets sitting wider and his pupils more animated, stark in comparison to how he looked in the last reset. How had Papyrus not noticed his decline beforehand?

  "yeah, good point. but if you are-- and i'm just throwin' this out there for future reference-- you can. given the years of total bullshit i've been sending your way, i'm not gonna complain. especially after all that stuff with the core."

  Papyrus felt his previous relief ebb away as he was approaching uncharted territory, both for Sans and himself. He would have to choose his words very, very carefully.

  Sans went to elaborate, to encourage Papyrus to speak, but there was a gap in his memory, a sinkhole that was taking in his thoughts. What...

  What had actually happened?

  "FELL IN," Papyrus blurted in panic. "DR. GASTER FELL IN. REMEMBER?" Well, thank God he had chosen that sentence carefully or that would have been an unmitigated disaster. Papyrus suppressed his reflexive need to pinch his nose.

  Sans looked vacant, before life slowly returned to his eyes as memories that weren't his own trickled back in, beloved falsehoods. That part was crystal clear now, he remembered every detail. "yeah. yeah, that. god, that was a mess. i--" Again, emptiness returned to Sans' eyes as something that frankly shouldn't be happening pressed against his mind. Something was _wrong_.

  Papyrus crushed his frenzy, he had started and by god he wasn't going to do things by halves. Sans was going to be happy, to be at ease, so help him god. "I-IT'S LUCKY YOU WERE IN THE OBSERVATION ROOM." Did the Core even have an observation room? Was he thinking of one of those comics he found at the dump? Well apparently it had one now! He would have to operate on the little he did know. "OR THAT EXPLOSION COULD HAVE REALLY HURT YOU."

  Oh, of course. It was a difficult memory, no wonder he couldn't recall it, especially since he was half asleep. He remembered all of it, watching Dr. Gaster conduct tests on the ground level, remembered slacking in the observation room, that awful, awful crackling noise, the sound of something burning.

  "but thanks for sticking by me through all that stuff, and the drinking..."

  God, it was that easy. Horror, profound and mixed with a tinge of wonder settled in Papyrus' gut. Everything was the same, the only thing changed was that day at the Core and Sans' knowledge of the resets as the universe wrenched itself to fill in the gaps in his memory, there was still shrapnel there but Sans would never, never know about it.

  "you get why i never took the job, right?"

  Papyrus had clamped his hands to his knees and his fingers tingled as feeling returned to them. He remembered the last time he was sat on this couch with Sans, but the room felt brighter this time. The couch was more comfortable, the wood more polished, the atmosphere, even with that little bump, more relaxed.

  "royal scientist... that shit's a lot of responsibility. i mean, if the dude just _retired_ , then yeah, maybe. but any job that starts with 'hey, here's the keys to your office, the last dude exploded' isn't up my alley."

  "OF COURSE I UNDERSTAND! IT'S A SCARY PROSPECT."

  Sans looked back, wide awake, softness tinging his eyes. "course you would. you're gonna do some great shit, papyrus. i know you mean what you say and honesty's hard to come by.'

  Another prickle of guilt, like a splinter, like the itching in his arm. Another suppression, he couldn't allow himself to feel guilty. After all, he was The Great Papyrus and he was doing a very good thing. Was this how Sans had felt for the entire year he had spent alone? The thought encouraged him.

  "i know i've only got an hour left of my shift and you start work soon... but i think i'm gonna go up anyway, maybe try and make up for lost time. i kind of feel like a huge asshole."

  He couldn't, Papyrus had to meet with Frisk first, he had to think of something quick. "IT'S NOT A BIG DEAL! YOU CAN JUST TRY EXTRA HARD TOMORROW."

  Sans got up from the couch, groaning a little. God, he was out of shape. "nah, not even about that. just in general. it's kind of hard to explain, but..." He itched the back of his head, taking in a long, deep breath. "you ever notice how i get in these weird moods sometimes? for... for a few weeks?"

  Papyrus couldn't lie, not about this. "I DO," he admitted.

  "well... i think i just got out of one? it's weird, i didn't even notice. but i'm feeling pretty good, so i better ride it out while i can, right?" He grinned, relaxed and genuine. "hey, i might even go jogging with you."

  Papyrus was stunned. " _REALLY_?"

  "oh fuck no," Sans laughed, "i said i _might_. but all-in-all... yeah, i think i'm doing pretty good."

  Papyrus was struck by an idea. "WELL IF THAT'S THE CASE," he declared, able to finally express his elation, "YOU CAN REFINE MY PUZZLES IN THE FOREST! I MEAN, NOT THEY NEED REFINING, OBVIOUSLY. BUT YOU CAN TRY AND MAKE THEM BETTER."

  "sure. yeah, that seems kind of fun. so you'll cover my shift? it's pretty dull."

  Papyrus puffed out his chest and projected his voice. "I THINK I'LL BE FINE."

  Sans started walking away, something heavy hanging in the air. He stopped. "i know it's not gonna happen, and i know this is probably going to freak you out, but i'd feel better if i said it." He turned around to face Papyrus, who looked different in a way he couldn't pin down, not upset, but something. "but on the off chance a human comes through, i know you're not gonna want to put it down. neither would i. but there's a difference between someone showing up peacefully and someone invading. remember to defend yourself, alright?"

  Papyrus recalled a similar conversation he had as a child.

  "YOU KNOW I WOULDN'T KILL THEM."

  "wouldn't want you to. seriously. but hey, no point getting wound up over something that isn't gonna happen. you want my advice; take a magazine up there, it gets pretty dull."

  Papyrus was already up, adjusting his gloves, making sure they absolutely covered his ulna. "IF IT'S A _SENTRY_ JOB, THEN I'LL ACT AS A _SENTRY_. NOTHING WILL GET PAST ME!"

  "will you let something through if it offers to eat your spaghetti?" Sans poked good-naturedly.

  "MOST THINGS WILL NOT GET PAST ME!"

  That part wasn't a lie.

  "i'm gonna go get dressed, wanna walk up to the forest together?"

  "OF COURSE."  
 

* * *

  
  They were both on the outskirts of town, Sans digging in to his chilli fries, Papyrus walking alongside.

  "why'd you get a cinnamon bunny? i thought you didn't like 'em," he said, using his magic to speak with perfect clarity despite his full mouth.

  "OH, I JUST FELT LIKE GETTING ONE."

  "not gonna eat it?"

  "I'M SAVING IT."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the new chapter, in which papyrus hides the sexy robot statues from himself and the creepy dude living inside him, then lies like a motherfucker to an emotionally un-fucked sans. hope you enjoy!


	26. Choke

  Papyrus clapped his hands together, stood in his usual spot on the well-worn path. "SO! I HAVE GOOD NEWS AND BAD NEWS." Chipper and cheerful because it was expected, and so it was what he would be. Always.

  Frisk glanced up from the cinnamon bunny they were chewing through, warm and cloying, prompting Papyrus to go on.

  "THE GOOD NEWS IS; SANS IS IN AN EXCELLENT MOOD. BETTER THAN EVER, IN FACT."

  Their chewing came to a stop as confusion settled on their face, eyebrows quirked and face upturned, a look that said 'how?'.

  "BUT IN EXCHANGE, I _MAY_ HAVE SOLD MY BODY--"

  Frisk choked, a large chunk of pastry slipping past their tongue and lodging in their throat, big heaving breaths walled off. They doubled over instinctively as blind panic set in, the coldness of the snow and the darkness of the tree falling away until there was nothing but dread. The primal part of them took over as they summoned all their strength for one heft at their sternum.

  Papyrus was flapping. "OH MY GOD, A-ARE YOU CHOKING? OH, OH WHAT, WHAT DO I DO, I DON'T, WHAT--"

  _Thwack_.

  There was purchase but it was not enough, the chunk of food was firmly wedged. Frisk could feel reality slip away, but could make out Papyrus' voice as they fell to one knee.

  "OH, _NOW_ I SEE! DON'T WORRY, FRISK!"

  Pain blossomed in their abdomen as they were hit with a haymaker to the gut, precise, controlled, trained and painful. Clearly the sessions with Undyne had paid off, though if Papyrus were being honest, he never thought he would need to use his strength to punch a child in the stomach. But clearly that was what Frisk was motioning for. Organs, like malfunctioning machines, seemed to need the occasional bout of percussive maintenance, or so Papyrus assumed.  With a resounding cough out came the roll as Frisk lay flat on their back, clutching their midriff as the snow soaked into the back of their clothes. Tears welled in the corner of their eyes.

  "What the _hell_ , Papyrus?"

  "ARE YOU ALRIGHT?"

  Frisk looked up, not sure what part of this meeting to bring up first, the 'body selling' or the fact it felt like their lungs had been punched out of them. Given Papyrus' strength, they probably had. Better to deal with the more immediate issue.

  "OH WOW, I REALLY OVERDID IT DIDN'T I? SORRY."

  The pain spread itself thin across their body until it had dulled and Frisk could wrangle control of their thoughts. "Thanks for helping," they wheezed. Frisk went to prop themselves up, to slowly come to after the debacle, but before they could start Papyrus had picked them up by the scruff of their sweater and plonked them back on their feet.

  He laughed half-heartedly. "I DON'T KNOW MY OWN STRENGTH SOMETIMES. I THINK I DRINK TOO MUCH MILK."

  Frisk was wheezing, but potentially unpleasant questions needed to be answered. "Papyrus. I'm gonna assume that what you were talking about was a misunderstanding. Poor word choice. Not that you're actually selling yourself, because wow. What the hell?" Their throat felt like sandpaper.

  Confusion flit across his features before recognition hit, and with it, his palms to his face, hiding his embarrassment. "NO, NOT LIKE THAT. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD FRISK, NOTHING SO SORDID. I'M JUST LETTING THE OLD ROYAL SCIENTIST LIVE IN ME EXCHANGE FOR SANS' FREEDOM."

  Frisk stared back, jaw open.

  "YOU KNOW, NOW THAT I SAY IT OUT LOUD-"

  "Papyrus... What the fuck?" Frisk was waving their arms in a futile attempt to grab at threads of information. It seemed Papyrus had developed a habit of showing up, chirping a 'HI' and then dropping a bombshell. At least the steady stream of cinnamon buns were something to look forward to.

  Papyrus put his hand on his hip, using the other to accentuate his words. "IT'S NOT THAT STRANGE," he said in a tone of voice that was flat with denial.

  "Papyrus..."

  "YES?"

  "What the fuck?"

  Papyrus could feel a flicker of something sour in his features, to which Frisk responded with another motion of the arms. He explained all he knew, about Gaster and the shrapnel, the verdant green fields of his soul, about the bargain and Sans. Information he had cobbled together, conclusions he had been forced to draw like needles from the ground, all purchase with little give.

  Frisk looked on, dully. "Papyrus. What--"

  "LOOK, I GET THE POINT," Papyrus snipped, surprising himself. "BUT THAT ISN'T WHAT I'M HERE TO DISCUSS. IT'S ABOUT SANS. WE NEED TO THINK OF SOMETHING." He awkwardly tugged at his scarf. "SORRY FOR BEING ANGRY," he added.

  That was barely anger, but Frisk wasn't in the mood to debate with Papyrus on what constituted 'snapping'. They weren't hurt, but knew he would be uneasy until they accepted his apology. "Don't worry about it." Understanding crept in like a strangling vine. "Sans doesn't remember anything? At all?"

  "NOT A THING."

  Disappointment, selfish but very much there. That was what Frisk felt, and it made them uneasy.

  "BUT YOU'LL ALWAYS HAVE ME, NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS."

  Sodden, eyes fat from tears and stomach hurting, Frisk felt the safeguard of maturity fall away. A switch had been made, an equal price, a single coin towards an unpardonable debt.

  "Can I get a hug?"

  Wordlessly, Papyrus held his arms open and Frisk squashed themselves against him, vice-like in grip.

  "I'm sorry," they mumbled.

  Papyrus gave them a pat on the shoulder, not sure what the best course of action was. When Sans would get in his 'funks' it was a toss up between trying to cheer him up and leaving him alone and he never pinned down the correct combination. Perhaps try cheering them up, and if that didn't work, leaving them with their sadness.

  "AND I AM SORRY," he said, voice low and soothing, "FOR UNLEASHING A PRETTY SWEET BODY-OBLITERATOR ON ALL OF YOUR ORGANS."

  Frisk looked up, Papyrus could only make out tufts of hair from over his scarf.

  "THAT'S WHAT UNDYNE CALLS MY PUNCHES. I'M A NATURAL, APPARENTLY," he continued.

  Small bursts of laughter, like water seeping up from under ice, was the response.

  It was another lie, carefully measured to elicit a certain emotion, but if Frisk felt better then what did it matter?

* * *

  
  The plan was in motion.  They would walk to town together, Frisk having been 'captured'. Then they would be 'let go' with little fanfare and resume as normal. The issue would be getting Sans to buy any of it. The way Frisk waddled, gut aching, gave credence to there having been a battle. One step, then another, then another until eventually they could see Sans at the end of the dirt path lined with trees, sprawling and static like fingers reaching out of the earth.

  Sans heard the echoes, the footsteps, and turned around to face Papyrus-- _holy shit that's a human_. He could feel his magic crackling defensively between the joints in his hands but quelled it skillfully. He had made a promise and from the looks of it it wouldn't be hard one to keep.

  Papyrus, the skinny speck that was growing in size as he moved closer, extended his arm above his head in an exaggerated wave, the human weakly joining in. Wow, they were short. In another long, easily registered motion he pointed excitedly towards the human and gave a big thumbs up.

  Step, step.

  Sans made an 'ok?' gesture, one hand firmly wedged in his pocket. Things seemed to be alright, from the way the human was hunched Papyrus had defended the hell out himself. He rolled up his sleeve to he could be better understood, and began signing letters, slow, rolling and drawn out so Papyrus could easily understand. He had only grasped the basics.

  'S.'

  'A.'

  'F.'

  'E?'

  With a little jump and a point, Papyrus signed back 'CAUGHT' fluidly.

  Sans almost didn't notice the effortless response through the relief.

  But he did.

* * *

 

  
  "i'm sans. sans the skeleton."

  "I THINK THEY NOTICED."

  Frisk looked back, wary and silent, afraid they'd say the wrong thing.

  "not much of a talker, huh? having a couple of skeletons walking around must be pretty weird for you, i guess. well, no biggie. we're really not scary."

  "SAYS YOU," Papyrus joked.

  "papyrus, you stepped on a slug when you were taking out the garbage and cried for two hours."

  "IT WAS VERY SAD!"

  Sans dipped down a little to look at Frisk, like he were examining a sample. Soft, squishy, and from the looks of it a child? Humans did look alike, they could have been a stunted adult. They were hesitant, but their eyes were scrunched in what looked like... Concentration? Stress? Judging by the space between their features and their height then Sans guessed they were in their early teens, perhaps a little older.

  "you ok? from the looks of it papyrus, uh... kind of beat the shit out of you." He shot a glance towards Papyrus, who was rocking on his heels. Guilt? Probably. Whatever he had done wasn't intentional.

  "SORRY AGAIN."

  "I'm alright," Frisk responded, thinking for an appropriate response. They defaulted to responding in kind, it was only polite. "How about you?"

  Sans was caught off guard for a second. They seemed nice enough, nobody had been murdered so far which boded well. "uh, me? yeah, i'm feeling fine, kid."

  There was something wrong, that much he knew, something he couldn't quite pin down, niggles that he couldn't consciously piece together like shards of glass, shrapnel.

  Frisk and Papyrus exchanged a glance.

  Guilt pressed on Papyrus like gravity, constant and without end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Papyrus being overly-literal leads to him punching Frisk right in the goddamn stomach after figuring out he's some kind of magical sensation-prostitute.
> 
> The phrase 'body-obliterator' is from cr1tikal btw, i just liked it a lot.


	27. Jokes

  Sans was beset by the feeling that perhaps he had done this before, patting the seat next to him at the bar languidly. "hop up, kid. whaddya want to eat?"

  Frisk clambered up on the stool next to him, without the security of repeats to dictate the course of action. Keeping quiet seemed the plan for now. They shook out a no, one hand lightly pressed over their stomach, dull pain ebbing and flowing.

  "geeze, papyrus really did a number on you, huh? sorry about that, he isn't usually so..." he trailed off, not sure how to articulate his point because he wasn't entirely sure what his point was. "quick to anger, i guess? or anger at all, really. it's been a weird day." With a relaxed quirk of his arm, he motioned Grillby over to take their order, clearly thinking about something, but not coming straight out with it. That fact made Frisk uneasy, which Sans picked up on, though not fully. "don't worry about payin'."

  Grillby was glancing between them, waiting. "i'll have a cheeseburger. the kid'll get a--" he trailed off to let Frisk finish, but the answer never came, as if through ordering food they would accidentally blurt out the truth. "...another cheeseburger?" Grillby nodded, scrawling the order on his notepad. Before he walked away he cast a glance to the cabinets of alchohol behind him to see if Sans wanted anything, as he would with any other customer.

  "kids can't drink, grillby. the hell's the matter with you? damn, dude." Sans was treated to a withering look in response to his ribbing, to which he chuckled. "yeah, water's fine."

  Frisk was shifting uncomfortably in their seat, vivid memories assailing them as deja-vu took hold, feelings left over from the last time they were here, though the smell of alcohol in the air was nowhere near as pungent. They hadn't notice Grillby walk away, which was strange considering he was the most noticeable thing in the bar, a constant, if professional, hazard.

  Sans remembered what he had told Papyrus earlier, in the house. 'Defend yourself'. In theory, it was very sound. Don't start fights, end them. But it was difficult to reconcile that with the child sat in front of them, quiet and, presumably, hungry. There was probably a very reasonable explanation, but there was still the chance they were dangerous.

  "what happened, anyway?"

  Frisk broke out of their trance, possible answers running through their mind. For this one they could probably tell the truth, or at least a somewhat exaggerated version. "Papyrus gave me his Cinnamon Bunny, but I started choking on it." They mimicked a punch, one fist into a palm, to reinforce the point. "He panicked."

  "oh, good. i was worried he had maybe went too far with the 'human catching', but that actually sounds like him. i gotta teach him the heimlich, or something. i blame undyne." He stopped, pips of his eyes turned upwards in thought before coming back down to look at Frisk. "that's his friend. you'll know her when you see her, heh."

  Frisk breathed a sigh of relief.

  "but the thing is--"

  The breath caught in their throat.

  "he told me there was a scuffle. that you had walked out of the ruins and you'd both engaged in..." He furrowed his brow as he tried to remember the specific phrasing Papyrus had insisted on. "uh, 'honorable cross-species fisticuffs'."

  Frisk quirked an eyebrow, panic rising in their gullet, almost certain they were breaking into a sweat. They mentally cursed Papyrus for forcing them to do this.

  "yeah, i know, right? anyway, is that true? 'cause from where i see it, there's two options here." Sans leaned back on the stool a little, popping his back, the overhead lights casting shadows that accentuated his teeth and his hollow cheekbones. "ahh, better. you should hear me try and stand up if i don't do this, sounds like a steamroller runnin' over some bubblewrap. so option one; you come out of the ruins, see a skeleton, freak out and swing for him. i can understand that, considering we look like human corpses. if a huge pile of dust stood up and marched towards me i'd lose my shit as well. but then papyrus swings back to defend himself and through the power of, i dunno, spaghetti, he 'captures' you. i say that because i don't think he has it in him to restrain you, not really."

  Two plates plonked on the surface in front of them as Grillby politely nodded, water following. "oh, thanks man," Sans said, as if he had forgot. Frisk digged their fingers into the hem of their sweater. "it's probably gonna be medium-rare, if that's a problem just say and i can get him to put it on for longer. dig in." He slathered his food in a disgusting amount of ketchup, brought it to his face, and cracked open his teeth just enough to tear off a chunk. Frisk responded in kind, taking a bite and chewing mechanically. The meat was underdone for their taste. They ate it anyway, staring all the while. "can't open my mouth any more than that. it hurts a lot if i do," he explained with his usual lazy cadence, mouth full, the discrepancy unsettling Frisk. "anyway, there's a problem with that first theory; papyrus has a hell of a left-hook. i should know, he's accidentally caught me a couple times when he's swung around to look at something. he's a big guy; built like a tank. which means that he must have been very, very scared and you must have been very, very close. way too close for it to be fear on your part. you don't chase down something you think might kill you." Sans chugged at the water on the counter, and the angle was making it difficult to see the white pips of his eyes. Frisk felt like they were being interrogated, and at that point they were certain it wasn't paranoia.

  Their throat felt dry, like bones, dust.

  "and even if papyrus was scared out of his wits, why'd he not use his magic? he's good at that. didn't even need to hurt you, just pin you down like--" Sans clicked his fingers and Frisk felt very, very heavy all at once. Their limbs felt like deadweights, blue tinging their vision as they could feel blood pooling in their feet, warm then cold. If this kept up, they would pass out--

  Another click and the blood rushed back, leaving them dizzy.

  "pretty cool, right? family thing. at least, i think it is."

  Frisk was hit with the realization that Sans and Papyrus were both far, far stronger than they let on. When Papyrus had done that, it had felt as if they were moving through treacle, but that was because he was holding back. When Sans had done it to make a point, not even enough to risk their life, it felt like lead was pulling on their brain stem.

  "so then we got option two. you alright, by the way? you aren't drinking your water. promise it's not vodka," he prodded good-naturedly.

  In response, Frisk took a sip quickly. Their friend, though he did not know it and would perhaps never know it, thought Papyrus was at one point in peril. Their friend, the gadfly, the skeleton, was an exceptionally dangerous monster. Their friend, Sans, could crush their organs and break their bones with a smile and a comment under the right circumstances. Their friend, with renewed vigor, would do anything to protect his brother. His apathy was as dead as he looked.

  Sans was halfway through his burger, picking a little at the salad on the plate with his fingers. His demeanor was lighter now. "option two is like you said. papyrus punched you to try and help because you were choking. which would mean papyrus is lying to me." His posture drooped a little, looking more like his old self. "but i'm not sure why he would. if he just said 'oh, i don't want to talk about it' then fine. but he didn't."

  Frisk felt an idea coming on. "Maybe he wanted to look cool and heroic," they said, voice hoarse from disuse, "having a human give up immediately isn't a very good story." This was a delicate balancing act between utilizing what they could have reasonably inferred at this point in time, and the details from the brothers lives they already knew.

  Sans chewed his food like cud as he thought it over, hurt slithering into his features. "yeah. yeah, i guess. just never thought he'd lie. he's really not the type." Sans looked Frisk over up and down one more time, wishing the kid was just a brat that took a cheap potshot. But they weren't. They seemed quiet, and they seemed nice, and above all they seemed out of their depth. "sorry for getting a little intense back there. i just... i just don't want anybody hurting him, y'know? he's trusting, he's naive--" was he, if he was willing to lie? "--but whatever crawled up my ass shouldn't give you a bellyache. that was a bad move on my part."

  Frisk felt the tension evaporate as Sans believed them and laughed out of relief at the turn of phrase.

  "oh, so you _do_ laugh?" he said, pushing his problems to the back of his mind. "alright, alright, i got a couple." He rolled up his sleeves and rubbed his hands together like he were meeting a challenge. "what kind of art do skeletons like?"

  Frisk sighed wearily in preparation. "I don't know."

  " _skulltures_."

  Frisk groaned. "I'm not five."

  Sans pushed his empty plate away from himself. "never said you were, but you gotta have a lead up to the darker stuff." This was a risky one. "y'know, the average human wakes up at five am."

  Frisk looked back, waiting.

  He motioned all around himself, to the mountain. "difficult to sleep with this on your conscience," he laughed.

  Frisk gasped, shocked but clearly amused. "Oh my God, that's grim." They hardened their features in deliberation. Sans caught on immediately.

  "monster joke? lay it on me. might want to keep your voice down, i don't think anybody else is gonna be too stoked."

  Frisk took a deep breath, trying to think. That one would do, tossed around by cruel children on schoolyards everywhere. "So a Monster walks into a Human library, right?"

  Sans was leaning forward. He had never heard one of these before, though he knew they had to exist. "ok, i'm with you so far."

  "And the Monster says, 'hey Human, can I borrow a book about war?' But the owner says 'I can't let you do that, _you'll just lose it_ '."

  There was a pause as Sans let the punchline wash over him. "god that's insensitive. i love it. got any more?"

  "A few. What about you?"

  "oh yeah. monsters are a bitter bunch."

  They both lost themselves for an hour, telling tasteless jokes and laughing, having genuine, honest, stupid _fun_. Sans allowed Papyrus' actions to slip out of his mind for the time being, he could talk to him later. Right now he had an excellent source of crass jokes to poke at. Grillby pretended not to hear.

* * *

  
  Frisk was in tears, having eaten their burger much to Sans' relief. No point in the kid going hungry. "--So then the Monster says, 'your honor, that's not my brother, _that's my wife_!'"

  Sans was howling, fat gasps of noise, pounding his fist on the table, snorting and profoundly undignified. Though they would miss him, Frisk could see now why Papyrus did what he had did. No burdens. No restraint. Just free, easy (if tasteless) laughter.

  The guffaws came to a slow stop as he looked at the time. "ah, i should probably be going home soon. i gotta talk to papyrus about some stuff." He felt a pang of betrayal, but shrugged it off. Maybe he didn't mean to lie?

  Frisk could feel the atmosphere dying. "If you're thinking about where the line is I think we crossed it about forty minutes ago. Unless you're out of jokes."

  Oh, now that was calculated to get a rise out of him. "...not quite." He looked left and right like he was passing on a secret of grave importance, like every other soul would die if they were to hear it. "so you gotta promise me you won't repeat this one. the rest were bad but this is _bad_."

  "I promise."

  Sans shook his shoulders, popping them. "alright then. you ever heard of 'the aristocrats'...?"

  Sans would find Papyrus once he was finished and ask some very pointed questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emotionally un-fucked sans' adventures continue. fun fact, the aristocrats is real and LET ME TELL YOU IT IS NOT PG 13


	28. Happy

 

 

 

 

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.   

 

 

* * *

 

  "you look like garbage. _sad_ garbage."

  "WHAT? NO I DON'T. I LOOK LIKE HANDSOME, GREAT GARBAGE. I LOOK LIKE _HIGH CLASS_ GARBAGE."

  Sans was sprawled on the couch, legs falling loosely over Papyrus who was sat up perfectly straight on the opposite end, posture rigid. The television was on but they weren't watching.  

  "what's up with you, man? you've been acting funny all day."

  Papyrus puffed out his chest, forcing himself to be confident in his scheme. Fake it until you make it, after all. He was a Machiavellian chess master of the highest caliber, so brilliant he had advanced and was playing a different game entirely, balancing Frisk, Gaster and Sans. Sans was wondering where to place the rook but Papyrus was already busy playing Mind-Jenga. "HOW SO?"

  "well for starters you've been clawing at your arm since this morning, plus you've been lying to me. you didn't capture the human and you're clearly hiding something," he said as if nothing was wrong. 

  In this battle of wits Sans had disregarded subtle prodding and snapped the chessboard in half. Mind-Jenga was ruined. Mind-Twister was absolutely out of the question. Papyrus felt his ribs bottom out in panic.

  "NO, I'M NO-"

  "you are. you're doing it _right now_. literally as we speak." He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie in the way that always made Papyrus want to gag. "tell me what's up, pap."

  Papyrus began formulating an answer but pride and panic dictated it be immediate. "NOTHING IS UP. I AM FINE. YOU ARE FINE. EVERYTHING IS FINE, THE HUMAN IS FINE AND THE TELEVISION, WHICH I WOULD LIKE TO WATCH, IS FINE. THIS IS FINE."

  Sans was propped up on his elbows, eyes wide. "wow, holy shit. people that say they're fine a dozen times tend not to mean it. and besides, 'fine' isn't 'good'. 'denial' isn't just a river in egypt."

  Papyrus felt his leg bob but pulled at the thread of conversation that was offered. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT AN EGYPT IS."

  "neither do i, i heard the kid say it and thought it was cool, they're a riot by the way, you're gonna get on great. what i _do_ know is that something happened this morning."

  They were both illuminated by the soft, saturated colors of the television, purples and blues against the darkness of the room and the infinite blackness of the outside. No moon. Never stars. Sans was covered by a blanket he had dragged from Papyrus' room (as it was closer to the stairs, and therefore the sanctity of the lumpy couch they had hauled from home to home) whilst Papyrus had stuffed what he could of his long body under the part that reached him. The light, blue, green, purple, hit the highest points of the bones of their faces, hollow cartilage filled with life. It was clear they were brothers, joined, mimicking cadavers, human in appearance compared to other monsters but very much impermanent. Their nasal bones sat at the same point, they had the same dips under their sockets, fine ridges that could be mistaken for bags, sharp, though slightly stubby, teeth. They had both clearly taken after a parent each in their appearance, though they would never find out who, which they were content with. Their parents were not around, and that was fine. If they were dead then that was that, and if they were alive, well, at this point they didn't deserve to be in their lives. That was what Sans said. Papyrus would have forgiven them for any wrongdoings. He would have at least liked to see what they looked like, to talk. Perhaps their mother liked puzzles? Perhaps their father liked to cook? They were probably cool people, even if Sans refused to recount the very few memories he did have. He would grow quiet, admit 'they ain't good ones' and Papyrus wouldn't push. You don't leave home with an infant at seven if you are happy. You don't steal food from stalls and squat in abandoned buildings at eight if you are happy. You don't take any menial job you can get, sweeping, washing, chopping, at nine if you are happy. Papyrus could keep his quiet, idle falsehoods.

  But here he was at twenty-six (twenty-seven, technically), happy. Not at this particular moment in time, but in a far grander sense, on a cosmic scale, the universe itself torn apart like crepe paper to accommodate it.

  And all it required was for Papyrus to sell himself. Thought, soul, body and being.

  Given what Sans had done, it seemed fair.

  "so are you gonna tell me, or what? 'cause i'm starting to freak out here. you hurt your arm?"

  Papyrus whipped it back like he were touching hot coals, far too quickly, far too decisively. "NO. LEAVE IT BE." What happened if he touched the shrapnel, would Sans remember? He couldn't risk it. He couldn't. He was considering bolting out of the door, better that than act in anger, prickling and growing in his chest.

  Sans was inching forward, scooting the blanket off himself. "you've done _something_."

  He hovered there, feet away, silent.

  "you trip in the forest?"

  "NO." He didn't want to lie. He would. But he didn't want to. Better a lie of omission than a choked, half-hearted tale.

  "... did somebody hurt you, pap? i won't freak out." Oh, he would. Not at Papyrus, of course. But he would.

  "CAN WE PLEASE JUST WATCH THE TV? I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS."

  " _'oh, i don't want to talk'_ means something is up. i want to help, why won't you let me _help?_ shit, is this how you felt with me?"

  Papyrus clasped his hand around Sans' wrist, nowhere near enough pressure to hurt, but enough to say 'I will try and stop you'. "PLEASE DON'T PUSH THIS. NOT TONIGHT."

  Papyrus watched as Sans narrowed his sockets, blankness tinged with upset, and cursed himself for being so weak, such a bad liar, so fucking stupid! All this effort and he was undoing it, if only he were harder, more ruthless! If only he were a better liar, one bad deed weighed against the good he was doing! He was still a hero, so help him God, and if he had to be a hero that would lie and cheat then fine, there's no such thing as perfection. His armor had dents, his scarf was torn, and he had flaws even if he wanted to crush them.

  Finally, Sans cracked the silence. "... you hurt yourself, pap?"

  Papyrus responded still clasping, suede gloves squeaking unpleasantly against bone. "YOU ALREADY SAID THAT, I TOLD YOU I DIDN'T TRIP."

  "no, no. _think_."

  Clarity. "OH. OH, YOU'RE ASKING... NO, I DIDN'T HURT MYSELF."

  "'cause if you did... i would get it, y'know? i mean, not get it--like... i don't want you hurting yourself, obviously, but you've just been so weird today, it's like you've changed. b-but i would get it." He was desperately, ham-fistedly, trying to put across the point that at some period in his life, one the universe had forcibly moved him past, he had considered harm, harm and mortality and all it entailed. "i never actually did anything, way too lazy, heh," he laughed humorlessly, "but i got past it. so if you're thinking anything like that, please, _please_ say somethin', _anything_."

  Guilt, catastrophic and burning like bile, endless, swamping and forever, forever like death, forever like ash, forever like magic. All this trouble, all this sacrifice and he was ruining it, not Frisk, not Gaster, not Sans, The Great Papyrus. He would need to think of something to say, and as much as he loathed the prospect, a barb seemed the best course of action. Just enough to rile Sans into leaving, but nothing too personal, nothing too cutting. Then he could fix this, he loved Sans so much, God please, let me fix this. Sans' apathy was gone, his sadness, gone. It wouldn't take much. Then he could think of a way to put it all right, to make it all better, because he was smart, and great and cool.

  Unfortunately, Papyrus couldn't do things by halves. Something was either done or it was not. It was good or it was bad. It was clean or it was dirty. Whilst there were distinctions within those categories, wiggle room, he didn't like to think of them. Complications were easy to get stuck on. Lately he had noticed that perhaps he had been doing more bad than good and the thought made him want to break his own bones in frustration, to gut himself and spray the marrow.

  "you look so _tired_ , man. it's only been one day, is this how bad you've gotten in twenty-four hours? there's a human here, and you don't even look excited--"

  Deep breath, in, one, two, three.

  The light from the television was a stark white, framing them in black.

  'I AM SORRY, SANS.'

  'PLEASE FORGIVE ME.'

  Sans couldn't touch the shrapnel, couldn't be near. If things didn't come to a stop immediately he would try.

  "DON'T START PROJECTING ALL OF YOUR PROBLEMS ONTO ME JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE FIVE MINUTES AWAY FROM THROWING YOURSELF OFF THE NEAREST CLIFF. TAKE THE HINT AND LEAVE ME ALONE."

  He noticed his grip was tight enough to hurt and loosened it.

  Papyrus braced himself for a sibling row, one that he couldn't win verbally, not against Sans. Not against smart, quick, happy Sans. There was none. He would be thrashed in an argument and he would deserve it. Instead there was only a vocal fry that split into a crack.

  "... _p-pappy?_ what the fuck was that?"

  Oh God.

  "OH, I... ARE YOU CRYING?"

  Sans was cramming the blanket against his sockets, mopping up globs of tears, water and salt and _anger_. "of course i'm crying, what the fuck was _that?_ the fuck happened to you, papyrus? what, you think you can walk in like a totally different person and think i wouldn't catch on? you think i'm an idiot?" He laughed, loud and empty, "oh wait, clearly you do if you have such a low opinion of me. i mean, it's not as if i care about you more than anything, god, it's not like i _raised_ you because wowie, what a dick move that comment would have been, right?"

  Papyrus wanted to throw himself into the river for being such an idiot, a loud, impulsive idiot. He couldn't fix this. Not this timeline. It was all on him, no resets, no cosmic shenanigans, just the knowledge that he was different, he was different and angrier and he couldn't pin down a cause, couldn't pin down a worthy target for it.

  "good luck scratching at your arm. come get me when you feel like stopping, i'll be in my room. _god_..."

  Papyrus was clutching the blanket and shaking, if only Sans hadn't poked and prodded.

  "I'M SORRY. I ASKED YOU TO LEAVE IT-"

  "don't. don't pin this on me because you went nuts. i'm going the fuck to bed. goodnight, pappy. hope you feel better by the morning."

  Sans was trudging up the stairs, sullen and familiar.

  Papyrus didn't know what to say. Failing, he squeaked out, "IT'S ONLY EIGHT-THIRTY."

  The door slammed.

  Sans was upstairs, flat on his bare mattress, unhappy.

  Papyrus, for the first time in his life, was alone. He was alone with the knowledge that, under the right circumstances, he could be bitter, pointed and spiteful.

  Out of the corner of his vision shadows moved and grasped and coalesced. It became apparent Gaster wanted to speak to him.

  "I JUST WANT TO _HELP._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you remember that last happy chapter? FUCK THAT. This is the one where Papyrus goes too far and sans whips out his blackbelt in passive aggressive combat. I hope i've managed the transition from 'cinnamon roll pap' to 'jesus fucking christ pap', and i hope you enjoy it! ^-^
> 
> quick update because i'm in a good mood


	29. Trees

  Gaster motioned to say something, lights reflecting dully of of him like it were cast on black silk, but was cut off before he could start.

  "IF YOU'RE HERE TO SAY SOMETHING CRUEL THEN I AM GOING TO UNHINGE MY JAW LIKE A SNAKE AND SCREAM DOWN THIS ENTIRE MOUNTAIN, I AM NOT IN THE MOOD TO TALK TO YOU."

  "I should say the same. I am not the cruelest person in this room."

  Papyrus went to spit venom, having finally found a target that deserved it, but felt the comment die in his throat. He couldn't, not so freely. He wanted to pretend he was the person he had started as, all hope and love and sunshine, not lashing out at the slightest provocation because what hero does that? Instead he grabbed the cushion nearest to himself and clutched it. God he was so angry, he was so angry and he didn't know why.

  "FOREST. NOW. SANS WILL HEAR US TALKING."

  " _You_. Sans will hear _you_ talking."

  One long breath, wide and shallow, and up he stood. He adjusted his scarf, poking it over the dents in his armor before he set off, like he always did. There were holes in it, knots and frays that would only get worse if not attended to.

  "Is that necessary?"

  "YES, IT IS."

  One long, graceful stride, then another firmer one, until eventually he was out of the door, Gaster evaporating to follow him. Strides became stomps, stomps became cracking thuds as he broke into a sprint, as if he were kicking the ground and the movement just happened to push him forwards. Clouds of dirt flowed like water, grit like sand, clogging the gaps in his joints. Snowdin was empty, thank God, because he had a face like thunder, boots hitting the ground with a loud whack. He hadn't checked the time, but if he were to guess it was around eleven, the perfect time to run in icy conditions. Nobody was around to laugh if he slipped on the ice. He would sometimes grab a stick and carve nice messages into the snow for the townspeople, sometimes for himself. Self-indulgent and simple. He missed that.

  He decided to take his running route, through the trees, over the long bridge (taking care not to get his leg wedged between the gaps even though that had absolutely _not_ happened before and he had absolutely _not_ been stuck for three hours flailing like bacon in a wind-tunnel), taking the long dirt path up to the Ruins. The path was well trodden, flat earth clumped together. It wasn't, however, his destination. Through the clearing lined with tightly packed trees, there was a smaller, thinner path, tapering off from the road like twine pulled taught. It was hard to see, but it led to a crag along the inside of the hollow mountain, no path, no guidance, just mud and sleet and rock, the flesh of the Earth. At the end of the path, around a half mile away, it opened up into a glade, young trees dotted around a grassy expanse with a tall tree stump in the middle. He liked that stump. He could sit on it and not need to crane oddly to compensate for his height. That was his goal.

  He saw Gaster appear besides the tree four paces in front of him like a flash flood.

  "You can't-"

  Papyrus kept sprinting, joints aching, burning. He hadn't spent months training just to _not_ run away from his problems. What a waste that would have been.

  "Would you-"

  On he went.

  There was an old, old tree ahead of him now, standing out against the younger, lusher ones. He could see its color, though not its shape, through the wind that whipped his sockets. Curious, he channeled his magic and summoned a bone five feet in front of him to compensate for his movements before catching it out of the air skillfully. At a glance it looked like a femur. The tree was approaching.

  He raised it over himself with one hand, disregarding the bare-bones weapons training Undyne had given him. She never liked teaching him that. He was never sure why.

  _CRACK._

  The tree was wounded from the sounds of it and the femur had been snapped in two, discarded half dissipating like steam and with it his anger.

  He felt better.

  Another tree, shorter and younger, velvety needles and a clean, pleasant smell.

  _CRACK._

  Pain traveled up through his left arm, ringing over the metal, the femur a stump in his hand.

  He felt _good_.

  Not whole, not content, _good_. The kind that would wash away with time. Fullness after a meal with friends. Giddy, red-faced afterglow, huffing, sweating and spent. Laughing until your ribs hurt at some stupid pun then playing up the irritation, bantering. Warmth,  just enough to deny what gave you reason to seek it out in the first place, but not enough to truly fill in the gaps. Though it was tantalizingly close.

  He could see why Undyne liked doing this. Hitting things.

  _CRACK_.

  Though he could never turn it against a living creature. He had standards.

  _CRACK_.

  Even if the rest of them had slipped away.

  _CRACK_.

  He felt _amazing_.

  _CRACK_.

  He had stopped running, opting instead to summon bones, breaking them against the peeling bark. He wasn't sure what noise he was making. Was he laughing or was he screaming? Both, he had assumed. It was loud, and it was shrill.

  This was better than shrieking into some cushion. More hygienic, as well. Where was the downside?

  Gaster was watching, delighting in the pain and its novelty. He felt bark in his phantom arms, pleasantly buzzing on adrenaline, nowhere near as much as the first hand experience but it was all he could ever know. He would enjoy this for now, peeking from behind the trees. Then he could get to his point.

  Papyrus imagined his guilt etched into the bark of this tree.

  _CRACK_.

  This thighbone was broken, splinters tearing his glove. Better summon another!

  He imagined his flaws carved into the softer parts of the wood, which was exposed in foot-long split.

  _CRACK_.

  He imagined his thoughts, his gloating and his stupid fucking plans, lodged in that tree.

  _CRACK._

  He wasn't having fun anymore, this wasn't cathartic anymore. The glee had left him but he couldn't stop. He couldn't, couldn't stop. He didn't know why.

  The night was still save for the noise of whipping bark and Papyrus' wailing.

  He imagined himself in that tree, angry, wanting to live up to a storybook ideal he couldn't possibly attain but God how he tried, how he tried so hard. He just wanted to fix everything but he was a softhearted coward that couldn't lie to make things better, spouted the first thing that came to mind to keep Sans away. God, he had hurt _Sans_. He was wheezing now, body giving under his heavy swipes, aching.

  Still, he continued.

  He picked up the pace in his frenzy, hitting the same point over and over again, over and over and over until he couldn't remember who he was, what he had done, what he had stood for or what he wanted. There was just a tree and it looked like it needed to be hit.

  He hated this.

  _CRACK_.

  He didn't want to hate. Not in any capacity.

  _CRACK._

  He wanted to go home, make a big plate of spaghetti, curl up in a nice, big, warm blanket and talk to Sans. Not home as in this timeline. Home as in three months ago. Home as in the company of people that loved him, soft and patient and kind.

  His swings were feeble but still he plowed on. Papyrus cursed himself for accepting this deal and for not being as strong as Sans. He probably didn't need to do this, so smart, so calm. The dampness of the air soaked through his gloves. It was probably sweat. Disgusting. Unclean.

  _Thud_.

  He knew that if he were offered the choice again he would always curse himself.

  "That's quite enough."

  Papyrus finally came to a stop feeling more like himself, gasping and propping himself against the half-naked tree bark, the slight pressure of magic around him. He could barely stand. He coughed from the pit of his ribs, then turned around to face Gaster, guilt pressing slowly into him but not enough to draw his attention away from what was happening.

  "RIGHT... SORRY... O-OK, I... I CAN SPEAK NOW, I'M FINE."

  He felt better. Truly, now. Not in the throes of a breakdown, at least, which made him the pinnacle of mental health compared to fifteen minutes ago.

  Gaster was feet away, glad he had intervened. The fun had worn off. Pain was grand, but not when that was all there was. "Your finger. It's dislocated." He pointed to the corresponding finger on his own hand. "Fix it."

  Papyrus furrowed his brow in confusion, before the dull pain that sat on the inside of his bones moved aside to make way for the stinging in his ring finger on his left hand, the part that had gripped tightest around the bone clubs he had summoned. Wowie, that hurt. That hurt a _lot_. When had he done that? He didn't want to look at it, the idea of his bones popping out making him want to retch.

  "You need to look at it. If you want to fix it then you must."

  He was drained, only having enough energy to put up a petulant fight out of principle. He was a grown man dammit, and if he didn't want to look at his broken finger then that was that! "NO. MAYBE I DON'T WANNA. MAYBE I WANT TO HAVE A BROKEN FINGER FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. MAYBE I WANT TO HAUL IT AROUND AND PUT A LITTLE HAT ON IT AND MAYBE IT CAN BE MY NEW BEST FRIEND AND I CAN SHOW IT OFF AT PARTIES."

  Gaster brought a hand to his forehead, doing his best to ignore his synchronous pulses. God, he would need to play along to get the pain to stop.

  "ASK ME WHAT I WOULD CALL IT."

  Dr. Gaster was hundreds of years old. He was the most successful Royal Scientist that ever lived. He had the most profound understanding of magical theory of any creature to ever exist. He had transcended his mortal form to inhabit the void. He was infinite. He was magic. He was, for all intents and purposes, a god. He sighed. " _What would you call it?_ "

  "FIN-GORE. LIKE AS-GORE. BECAUSE THE HAT WOULD BE A CROWN." Papyrus was smiling and it wasn't the usual lighthearted expression he used in flights of whimsy. He knew. He had wrenched the tiniest sliver of control back. "IT'S A PUN."

  " _Amazing_ ," Gaster rasped, "would you like me to tell you how to fix it?"

  "OH, IF YOU WOULDN'T MIND." Cloying, unwavering politeness, voice high with restraint and pain, still with the wild glint in his eye.

  Gaster was very close to drifting over and slapping Papyrus in his stupid, sweet face. He wasn't a medical doctor. But how difficult could it be?

  "Give me your hand."

  "I AM NOT DATING YOU, YOU INTRUSIVE GARBAGE-MAN."

  "It's to fix your finger you shrieking bag of neuroses, I'm in an incredible amount of pain."

  Papyrus walked forward, stumbling under his fatigue before catching himself. He felt his pride welling up and let it happen. "...I DON'T SHRIEK." Slowly, tentatively, he presented his hand to- _oh God_.

  His finger was bent backwards wholly, twisted unnaturally, the only thing keeping it attached was the thin crackle of magic that held him together. Oh, now it hurt. But it was his own fault and as such he had no right to complain. He wasn't crying, not truly, it was just fresh tears running down the established tracks on his face.

  The air was still around them both as Gaster clasped at the wrist clinically, spinning the hand, ignoring Papyrus' whimpers and his own spasms of pain. Oh. Oh, that felt strange, to hold a hand that very clearly wasn't his but feel nonetheless. When he was floating and endless he could reconcile the experience. This was altogether more disorienting. With a heft he twisted the finger with a crunch, flecks of bones grinding off, wedging it back into place.

  They both yelped in unison, Papyrus swinging his wrists in an attempt to regain feeling. He could move it at least, though it hurt. The sharpest point of pain brought him fully back to his senses. "WHY ARE YOU HERE?"

  Gaster clasped his own hand, still like death and the snow around them. "You are an investment. It's in my best interests to keep you healthy, mentally and physically. Idiot."

  Papyrus looked at the ruined tree, frost glittering on the chocolate bark. He could do a lot of damage if he wanted to, six foot seven of very dense bone. He didn't want to do damage. He didn't want to be like that. But he had and unfortunately it seemed he did.

  "... WHY DO YOU DO THAT? WHY DO YOU INSULT ME SO MUCH?"

  Gaster held stock still, like he had frozen completely, before answering. "I don't," he responded simply.

  Papyrus made a confused noise, still in pain, still with a void the anger had left in him. "YOU DO! YOU JUST DID!"

  "I didn't. That was you."

  " _WHAT_?"

  Gaster rolled his eyes, the exacerbation entirely his. "You get these little thoughts, like stones across a lake, barely there, barely touching. You deny them, then crush them under optimism. I don't do that, I speak them. They're so small I don't think you notice. They sneak out of me."

  "... OH," he could only say, tall and swaying and sore. That was... He didn't want to dwell on that. Perhaps that was the problem. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME EARLIER?"

  "Because I wanted to see what would happen."

  "YOU DO THAT A LOT."

  "I know. It's almost as if I'm a scientist."

  Papyrus realized something. "... YOU WERE CHECKING UP ON US AFTER I... AFTER I SAID THAT TERRIBLE THING, WEREN'T YOU? YOU _DO_ CARE, DON'T YOU?"

  Gaster was quiet, any errant noise absorbed by the snow around them. "You are both investments."

  " _I_ AM AN INVESTMENT. SANS WAS YOUR FRIEND-"

  "Your finger will heal. Get out of my sight. Don't have another breakdown." He vanished like mist.

  Remnants of Sans lived in Gaster, in thoughts and gentle inclinations that weren't his own, easily ignored. When it was simply Sans, there was only his physicality, his drunkenness, his misery, his love for Papyrus, though he didn't love himself. Then it was Papyrus, egotism, stomping, tantrums and speeches, a thick golden hide concealing cancerous self-loathing and his overwhelming want to help, to be good, to be _loved_ , to not be so alone. That brief time when it had been both, that brief, brief time, however...

  It came dangerously close to canceling each other out. Two unhealthy creatures forced to rely on nothing affection and sacrifice. Gaster wanted nothing to do with it, but like it or not, he did.

  Hope rested in Papyrus' breast, pine sitting in between. Those little thoughts he would crush, a constant battle that seemed to be without end. Perhaps it wasn't normal. He could deal with that at his own pace, but he needed to get his priorities in order.

  Perhaps he didn't need to lose himself in the motions of violence. Perhaps he didn't need that cushion.

  The pink sky slithered in from the top of the mountain.

  He would go home and apologize without the dead-weight of rage he didn't understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus has such a meltdown he sort of loops back around again to stable: the movie: the videogame: the fic


	30. Climb

  Papyrus had stomped out of the house. Of course he did, everything always had to be about him. Prick.

  Sans groaned, face crammed into the bare mattress, bedsheet covering him instead of his duvet because he couldn’t be bothered picking it up. He was upset, but he could handle that. They had gotten in their fair share of tiffs over the years, some brotherly spats, some more serious in their inclination, the difference between ‘I KNOW YOU ATE MY LUNCH’ and ‘YOU CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS’. He was in his prime when trapped in a dumb, petty argument that they both knew didn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things, knowing just what little buttons to push and just what little switches to flick to get a reaction, to get Papyrus to stamp his foot in that way he hadn’t quite grown out of but would always deny doing, all spark and bite. It was funny, harmless, endearing. The contrast between Papyrus’ build, that of a soldier, and the grumbling would always be hilarious to him. But even in their more serious arguments, Sans skipping a meal and Papyrus demanding that he take his turn when they were growing up (“i’ll just pick at the scraps man, don’t worry about it. i ate when i was out,” he would say), he didn’t lose his cool. He would get angry. He would get upset. In his most unreserved moments, he would mumble and curse and fret. Because he knew if he did, if he just said ‘fuck it’ and set himself on whoever had angered him then Sans knew he would let his manners slip and let loose a spray of bile, every flaw, every insecurity would be picked and torn at like cheap fabric.

  Apparently, that ran in the family. The selfish asshole, thinking he can say shit like that. Couldn’t have built up to the ‘try not to kill yourself’ moneyshot like any normal person, in an argument in the heat of the moment, preface it with a couple of other personal jabs rather than going straight for gold. Amateur.

  Sans let himself roll over to stare at the ceiling. It was like a huge, cosmic prank at his expense. Well, that wasn’t true anymore. At their expense. He had just gotten his life together, felt pretty good about everything, met a human (who had an endless supply of terrible jokes, great kid.), things were working out. He was glad they had stayed at the Inn, however, as he didn’t want their amazing magical quest to marred by his domestic issues. Everything seemed to be going okay for the first time in while. Stupid, selfish Papyrus, with his temper, his insensitivity, his fear--

  God, he must have been scared, if he had been willing to say that. He must have been angry. Something was clearly wrong, something larger than a spat, larger than Papyrus, larger than himself. But what? Was he ill? Sans sat up, rough mattress scraping at the bones peeping out of his scrunched up hoodie, letting the weight of his anger tumble out of himself. He was going to go out and find out how Papyrus was doing, how he was really doing, and if he was completely fine then they could figure out something from there. And if not, well... They would deal with it together, always, always together . Breathe in, breathe out.

  There was something he was forgetting, he was sure of it. He had only wanted to help but the situation had blown up in his face, hurt wedging itself in his skull and making it difficult to think clearly. It was a mess.

  Sans knew he would probably be out roaming the forest, near that glade he would retreat to occasionally in huffs or states of bucolic wonder. What he wanted wasn’t important right now, what he needed was to be listened to. Though Sans was never sure why he would take the long path; bridge, path, ice, cliff. Too much hassle. The easier way was to cut through the backyard of their neighbors to the step-like formations in the side of the crag and walk the incline up, slow and steady or risk falling sideways on the black ice.

  He wedged his feet into his sneakers before picking up his discolored pillow, cramming his face into the cool, worn fabric and letting out a shout, building, building, building, _noise_.

  Ah, better. He was glad he had done that. He reminded himself to wash the pillow, it smelled of sweat.

  He left the empty house, too dark, too quiet, and set off. He couldn’t shrug off the comment, but he could sympathize with whatever Papyrus was going through. There must be a reason. He pushed his spite to one side, letting it melt into the snow. There was a lot of anger in the world. Life’s a lot easier if you just let it roll over you. Acknowledge, but don’t dwell. He took one slow step, then another, tiredness living in his bones. Sans made his way steadily through the snow, no path to guide him, just knowledge borne of weaponized procrastination. He could have stayed at his post and look for humans, but looking out over the Underground for hidden little paths seemed like fun. There were lots of things people didn’t notice about the towns they lived in, firm earth and towering stone above them, where they would be conceived, born, live then die. Apathy does that, sneaking anhedonia, little details falling away until there was nothing but a big picture you couldn’t quite see yourself in. Sans counted himself lucky to be feeling better in a grander sense, so lucky as to be unnatural, even with Papyrus’ barb. Even with his worry.

  That reminded him, this was probably the cliff he was talking about. Heh.

 

* * *

 

 Sans didn’t know the first thing about tracking. Not a jot. He was not an outdoorsman, he was not a scout, and he was certainly not a ranger. He would be the first person to admit he was stocky, short, out of shape. He preferred big-boned, but whatever. His steps were graceless, his walk slow and relaxed, and his posture slouched. That last one was his own fault, it was difficult to fix now, though he didn’t mind, it made him look approachable. He knew his rictus sometimes unsettled people. Luckily, his target didn’t know the first thing about being tracked so as far as this area of expertise went they were both half-wits, and if they combined their efforts they might even be a full-wit. What a dream that would be.

  There were many steps on the path, two feet wide and shallow, too many, easy to tumble and die on. He felt the wind howl in through the top of the mountain, twisting, turning, writhing over him dangerously as he advanced. It seemed specifically engineered to be just strong enough to scare him, to make him think he was falling, but not quite enough to knock him off, like a very specific joke. Perhaps it was? He might reach the top of the stairs and Papyrus would jump out with confetti and cake, a camera crew with that weird robot Papyrus would titter over like a schoolgirl. ‘SORRY FOR DOING SOME SKETCHY STUFF IN THE FOREST THAT MAY OR MAY NOT BE SELF-HARM, HERE IS SOME CAKE’. It had better be coconut cake, chocolate wouldn’t be worth this bullshit. He craned his neck up to look at the remaining steps, getting steeper and steeper until it seemed like a vertical climb, twenty feet from the top. He had never actually taken this route before. If Papyrus was in or around the clearing (which he would be, he had routines, he had ‘standards’ to uphold) then he would still be there in a half hour. Sans was going to walk back down and take the longer route, this was a stupid idea. It looked a lot easier from the ground, thirty feet below.

  He heard a scream.

  Not a scream. A _howl_ , shrill, distinct and enraged even when it was dulled by the wind. It was Papyrus, just over the top of the crag, thirty feet away from its edge

  Sans tore his hands from his hoodie jacket and bounded up the most shallow parts of the steps with heavy footsteps, the noise of bone clacking through the thin soles of his sneakers devoured by the cries. What was he _doing_?

  Oh God.

  What was being done to _him_? Maimed, tortured, carved, never once thinking to fight back, flayed, beaten, cut, sliced, bent, broken, ruined-- Images ran through Sans’ mind, panic whipping them to the forefront no matter how much he tried to settle himself, to think. Intrusive flashes of the worst played in front of his eyes as he clambered, Papyrus could be getting his limbs sliced off slowly, incredibly fine membrane and jolts of magic giving way as he were split like a wishbone, knees cracked and bent backwards, skull gouged and littered with cracks, dust and rot and tears, always knowing the person doing this could be better, could do better.

  It would all be fine, Sans couldn’t take a punch to save his life but he was one hell of a shot, cobalt magic and black ash, if he got to the person doing this, well, bad time would be a torturous understatement.

  There was a sickening crack carried on the wind of what he categorically knew to be bone.

  Sans choked back his fright and prepared himself to climb, wiping his sweating hands on his jacket before he did.

  He propped his hand against a small outcrop of rock above him, gripping tightly until it scraped at the hardened bones of his palm and crammed the tip of his foot into a gap just above his knee, the act pulling at his jogging bottoms so tightly they hurt his groin. On the count of five.

  One...

  Two...

  Sans was terrified, terrified for Papyrus, for his future, for... His own safety? Huh. There was another scream, strangled and carried on the wind, another crack, like the sound of a back breaking.

  --Fuck! Five!

  He heaved himself up and was all at once reminded of how dangerous this plan was, gusts catching under his hoodie like a sail. Ugh, why didn’t he take it off? He exhaled a long breath he didn’t know he had been holding onto and continued. Sans was shaking, death and the unknown finally presented to him on a platter, and he didn’t want to die, he had to pick up that sock, he had to talk to that kid again and finish the Aristocrats (‘--so the entire room looks like the inside of a jar of mayonnaise at this point-oh, you don’t look so good--’), he had to go home with Papyrus so they could argue about something small that didn’t matter; the dishes, puns, how long he slept. He was still a young man, he wanted to see the surface, he wanted to get by. Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his other hand to another outcropping above him, higher this time, craning his whole body upwards to reach it, slipping but finally finding purchase against the cliffside, inky, slimy with moisture, grasping.

  He hoisted himself up, foot slipping, smashing his face against the rock, the moss doing little to cushion the blow. He felt something rattle against his cheeks before dropping out of him, wind slipping through and with it white-hot pain. That was a tooth. Excellent, apparently everyone was breaking their bones like some kind of sick dance craze. This was absolutely what he wanted to happen when he woke up that morning. Tentatively, he conjured a tongue as he slowly climbed, running across the inside of his teeth. Fine, fine, fine, oh, there it was, his lateral incisor snapped off, though not cleanly. Its gap exposed the top of his lower incisor, brittle and unpleasantly sharp. It would grow back, or he could reattach it himself with magic if it hadn’t fell and he wasn’t _climbing a cliff holy shit_. He knew it should have hurt far more than it did, but adrenaline and panic were excellent sources of motivation. He had finally gotten off his skeletal ass to do something and all it required was the prospect of his brother being tortured to death and his own potential demise.

  The movements were coming easier but the act of performing them against terror still as difficult as ever. There was a knack to this as there was with everything else, he just had to find it.

  He kept onwards, body aching, retuning himself to the awful noise, the hideous snaps, the grinding of bone. His arms hurt, his feet hurt, his teeth hurt and he was pretty sure he had lost a sneaker. His bare foot clacked against the rock and he grunted in pain. Yep, he had.

  It was beginning to sound less like anguished screams, echoing over and down until it hit him and more like cackling, wicked, free and worrying. Papyrus wasn’t being hit, he was hitting something, and from the sounds of it with more than enough force to kill.

  One, two, heave. He was pretty close now, less than five feet. A few more grasps-

  He fell, tumbling backwards, microseconds stretched out in front of him, life behind. This could be it.

  But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

  He had shit to do. Jobs he still needed to half-ass. Undercooked spaghetti to eat.

  With a massive swipe of his arm he directed his magic towards himself until he saw nothing but blue, letting it cling onto his own soul and grab at his insides. Then with a heft he threw himself towards the rocks face in wild abandon, a frenzied attempt at staying alive. The fall to the ground was enough to ensure he died, but it would be by no means a quick and painless death. Though death was never painless, not really, occasionally for its participant but not its viewers.

  His collision with the rock face coincided with a weaker crack of noise from above, whole body slammed against the surface, lying prone. His ribs were bending, nothing but primal heat and worry, his own artificial gravity colluding with the natural pull of the blackness below to draw down his hoodie. He dragged his arm out from under himself to reach up, remembering now why he hadn’t done this earlier. It felt like he was dragging himself through cement, a necessary struggle to keep him elevated.

  He slung his leg out and heaved himself upwards, no longer confident in his ability to scale on prowess alone, the blueness of his sight making it a little easier to see the rock contrasted against itself. His favorite jacket was torn, an irreparable diagonal gash across its front after he had caught it on a rock, deep enough to scrape his ribs like a knife.

  Three feet.

  Everything hurt.

  Two-and-a-half feet.

  He was tired.

  Two-and-a-quarter feet.

  The sounds of whipping finally gave way, mumbling on the wind. Was Papyrus talking to himself? He wasn’t shouting, at least. His rational mind noted that the lull meant that Papyrus probably wasn’t in his death throes. The rest of him, however, continued to imagine the worst, playing it out over and over in perfect, horrifying clarity; gashes, scarves, snow, dust. He felt like he had seen them before. Fear is strange once it oversteps its designated boundary of self-preservation.

  One foot.

  He had made it.

  He felt his magic fizzle and crack as he let it die, blue pops and sparks like a bare wire before it left. He was lying on the ground, covered in scratches, blinding pain in his tooth, grass settling in his exposed foot and hoodie destroyed. He could have left earlier and tried sprinting the long way like Papyrus did, but no, he needed to use his ‘shortcuts’. Though knowing his luck if he had attempted the run he would have come out even more injured. Every scrape burned like alcohol had been poured on it.

  He lay there, perfectly prone, not even losing himself in the repetitive motions of breathing, like a corpse. The wind ruffled his coat, fabric irritating him, damp earth soaking into his back, chunks of kicked up dirt settling in his eye sockets and moving into the rest of his face. Gah, tickly. With a heave of effort he propped himself up on his shaking elbows, one leg against the ground underneath him to support his frame. He tilted his skull forward, swaying it back and forth to encourage the debris to dislodge, giving a few huffs and snorts to get it out of his nasal bone. A lot, but not quite all of it, was out. There was still soil trapped behind his teeth. Better to take the painful, faster route of relief than have it sit there. With a sickening pop he unclipped his jaw and let it hang loose against his face, dangerous maw with excess teeth usually hidden by his false smile, the way his cheeks sat, pitch pit for a mouth. It was agony, but necessary, tilting himself fully forward like he were vomiting, gobs of dirt falling until he felt better. That felt like most of them. Being a skeleton, hard edges and crevices, came with issues, painful, jaw-dislocating issues. With another pop he thrust the bone back in, face settling into his normal position, fixed placidity hiding the tension is his eyes. That never got any less uncomfortable, groaning lowly into his sleeve as the burning became a steady throb that would fade. Slowly, tiredly, injured, he stood up and limped towards the forest from the cliffside, to his memories of the noise. Papyrus was going to be fine, so help him God.

* * *

 

   Woodchips were strewn across the grass like confetti, shards of bone scattered unevenly between them, melting. They were from the ruined tree, long gashes across its center until they became more shallow before finally tapering off into wide, haphazard strikes, trained and strong. Papyrus had lost his shit.

  Sans let his head fall into his hands, joints cracking, before reaching down to pick up a bone shard roughly the size of a coin. Time to put that doctorate to good use. It was Papyrus’ (obviously, didn’t need the degree for that one), and it was unpleasantly pliable, much unlike natural bone. This wasn’t a property of his attack, however, it was a representation of his distance from it. You can summon an object, conjure solidity, and it would prod and injure as well as its ‘real’ counterpart but it would always dissipate, proximity playing a key part in the time it took if it wasn't forcibly called off. This bone was in the middle of dissolving, tacky and melting slightly in his hand, fine soot-like powder covering it. Papyrus was nearby, though Sans couldn’t be sure if he had gone home or traveled along the path to the glade. He held the bone in his hand, warm like it was alive, still connected, and whipped it with all his strength through the air until it splat against a tree twenty feet away. Not that direction.

  He turned ninety degrees to his right, left temple pounding like a drum, throwing it with all the force he could muster. It splat again like tar, tinkles of crystallized bone inside ringing through the silent air. Closer, but not quite.

  Another ninety degrees, the path to Snowdin, another toss. The shrapnel of femur clacked like the genuine thing against the dirt path. Home it was, the long route very much preferable to his ‘shortcut’. If he hurried, he could probably catch him on the road. He let out a grunt of irritation, then broke out into a slow, pained jog.

 

* * *

 

 Papyrus decided to walk home slowly, broken out of his ruminations by a stinging feeling in the back of his skull. Was that a rock? Who else could be out here at this time of day? Slowly, he turned around, expecting to some child from the town. Instead, slowing and trudging, was the unmistakable figure of Sans.

  Many things ran through Papyrus’ mind at that moment, ‘OH SHIT’ being by far the most prominent amongst them, accompanied by ‘what does Sans know?’, and ‘does he feel better?’, followed by ‘is that my own bones flying towards me?’.

  Clack. They didn’t hurt, but the chips made their point. Sans was fixed and staring, limp. Oh, here came more. Clack. He had apparently gathered up handfuls and jammed them into his pockets.

  God, he looked terrible. What had happened to his tooth?

  “... SANS?”

  He started immediately. “so you storm out of the house without saying anything, which is fine. you’re a grown man, you can say hurtful shit and leave, i can’t stop you. you saunter off up here, and i think ‘wow, i hope he’s alright’, so i take a shortcut.”

  “... A SHORTCUT?” What shortcut, there wasn’t anything like that.

  “yeah. a shortcut. i climbed. i was scoping out potential cliffs to throw myself off of and thought--” he motioned to his battered form, “wow, i should totally mash myself against the rock on the way up. really get a thing going.”

  Oh, a joke, one that made Papyrus shift in his boots. “THAT WAS IN  VERY POOR TASTE.” The silence was awkward and he cursed himself for being hypocritical, he had no right to say that. “...WHY TAKE THAT ROUTE?”

  “’cause i heard you screaming like a banshee and thought you were being tortured. clambered up. turns out i’m not a natural, heh.”

  Papyrus had launched his hands up to his face, gasping in realization. “OH MY GOD, YOU MIGHT HAVE DIED!”

  “yeah, i fell off, had to launch myself against the rock like a ping-pong ball ‘cause you know, i thought you were in trouble and i love you. so then i get up, mosey on over to the forest and find that tree you wailed on like it owed you money. so now you gotta tell me. what the hell is up?”

  There was a pause as Sans looked him in the eye from under his brows, stern, disappointed.

  “I WAS ANGRY. I LASHED OUT.”

  “at what? me? you wake up today and think, ‘damn, i really hate trees?’”

  “NO. I THINK I KIND OF... HATE MYSELF?” He admitted before he could think.

  Sans slipped back into an approximation of his normal posture immediately. “whoa, this isn’t an interrogation, man. you said some mean shit, but that doesn’t mean you have to hate yourself over it-”

  “NO, NO, JUST IN GENERAL I THINK. EVER SINCE I WAS SMALL.”

  “...oh,” Sans said softly in response. He didn’t feel angry any more, giving way to resignation. Of course this would happen. A kid raising a kid is not the healthiest setup. There was quietness between them now, drained tempers and true empathy.

  “... d’you think we’ll ever be ‘ok’?”

  Papyrus felt something sit in his throat, painful as a welt. “DO YOU MEAN ‘US’ AFTER THE STUFF I SAID? BECAUSE I UNDERSTAND IF YOU WON’T FORGIVE ME.”

  Sans crammed his hands into his hoodie, out of his depth. “... i will. eventually. i don’t think i’m quite... there yet, y’know? i mean ‘us’. you, me. as people. doin’ our own thing.”

  “I THINK SO. IT MIGHT TAKE A LONG TIME.”

  Sans let out a long sigh in response, finally kicking off his odd shoe. “we’re a mess. in the past hour i’ve lost a tooth, had to dislocate my jaw and i think you’ve... i dunno, you’re different, man. that tree back there...” Was scary. “... was somethin’.”

  Papyrus took a tentative step closer, waiting for a rebuke that didn’t come. “... AM I REALLY DIFFERENT?” He knew, but he needed confirmation.

  “yeah,” Sans responded. He looked to the ground, to the dirt under his feet, feeling like the worms beneath. He was given a simple task in life; keep Papyrus happy and he had failed.

   Papyrus looked wistfully to Snowdin, tender glint in his eye. “... THERE’S A LOT OF GOOD IN PEOPLE, I THINK. SOMETIMES IT'S OBVIOUS, SOMETIMES IT'S UNDER THE SURFACE. BUT IT’S THERE. AND EVEN IF I CAN’T SEE IT IN MYSELF--”

  Sans looked up, guilt shutting down his ability to parse his thoughts.

  “--I THINK YOU SEE IT IN ME. AND I SEE HOW GREAT YOU ARE, EVEN WHEN YOU DON’T.  IT'S AN OKAY SYSTEM. YOU DON’T HAVE TO LOOK SO UPSET, I’VE ALWAYS BEEN LIKE THIS,” he smiled, warm and genuine. “BUT NOW I CAN BE HONEST ABOUT IT, IT’S A FACT NOW. BIRDS SING, FLOWERS BLOOM AND I HATE MYSELF. BUT I MIGHT NOT, ONE DAY. AND I THINK THAT'S A WONDERFUL THING TO ASPIRE TO.”

  Sans looked to Papyrus’ arm, injured, hand very clearly broken, the one he had clutched all day. Papyrus noticed.

  “you aren’t gonna tell me if i ask, are you?”

  “NO,” Papyrus responded plainly.

  “fine. i won’t push it, it’ll be your decision. but if you do ever--”

  “YOU’LL BE THERE. THANK YOU, SANS. I APPRECIATE IT.”

  Sans let affection hit his eyes, still stained with worry. “no problem, pappy.” He looked to the light flooding in from the mountains peak, the snow dappled gold and pink. “... i’m gonna go home, take the day off. you comin’?”

  “OF COURSE.”

  They walked together, Papyrus letting Sans lean his tired body on his frame. Though the circumstances were different he was no less heavy. “did you mean that?”

  “MEAN WHAT?”

  “the optimism. was it the real deal?”

  Papyrus slowed to think then resumed his walking pace. “IT WAS. THIS TIME IT REALLY WAS. DO YOU TRUST ME?”

  Sans swung his face forward to look to the town, their house and the comfort of his bed minutes away.

  “i trust you,” he lied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cut to sans-cam for this one, not a lot of plot in this chapter, more of a 'lets see whats going on here' kind of thing. I hope i captured the post argument atmosphere of 'i love this person but they can GO FUCK THEMSELVES'.


	31. Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you RedRogue for recommending my fic on TvTropes, and thank all of you for your support in my self-indulgent skeleton escapades!

  Papyrus woke up in his racecar bed, pain dully moving in motions up and down his body, its heat rousing him. He enjoyed the pleasant blankness that came with waking up, warm and comforting, before all at once he remembered his problems. That feeling had been lovely, he could see why Sans did this so much. He yawned, jaw popping as he did so, and brought his left arm up examine it, catching it in the weight of the duvet and hissing at the pain. His broken finger was stiff, the metacarpals of his hand slightly misaligned, not so much as to be a true fracture but enough for it to feel like one. He had really done a number on himself, fine scrapes and chips along the smooth surface of the bone, superficial but stinging, though he knew it could have been far worse. No cracks, luckily. Even though they would be temporary, he didn’t like the idea. He could try his healing magic, though it had been years since he had last used it, and even then he had never excelled. Papyrus would try his hardest but the motions never came quite as naturally to him, the ebbs and flows, the fine pushing and pulling on his soul. It was far easier summon something, one burst of exertion then the faint pressure of maintaining it, rather than a constant, wavering stream of magic. But it was worth an attempt.

  He had hurt Sans. Not directly, not with a strike. But he had.

  He let his limbs flop onto the bed and concentrated, ribs shifting as he focused on his breathing, the steady thrumming of his soul in his chest. This was a worthy exercise, healing. It wasn’t really a distraction from his problems, a distraction from the fact that he had to brave the awkward post-argument atmosphere downstairs. He could pin it down, then see if he could fix Sans up. From their appearance it looked like they been brawling with each other. One deep breath in, like you were floating, eyes shut, out for seven, focus on the warmth and--

  A small knucklebone materialized in the air one inch above his head before bopping him on the skull uselessly, then dissipating before it hit the bed. Well, that clearly wasn’t it. Time to try again! Perhaps he had gotten the order wrong? Little patterns and quirks he liked to follow, easily remembered and called upon, all done in a certain order before they were finally fully ingrained and thus could be skipped. In theory at least. Eyes shut, then breathe in for seven? He tried that, clearing his mind as best he could, then focused once again. There was a crackle of magic, the smell of something metallic in the air, the feeling of pooling in his injured extremity. Very promising.

  The feeling vanished with a ‘pop’ as two knucklebones appeared above him, one clacking against his cheek, the other landing in his eye socket. He yelped at the feeling before forcefully dismissing both, skull itching unpleasantly, long fingers awkwardly reaching inside to try and scratch it. He didn’t remember this process being so difficult. To prove to himself he still could, he conjured bones, shattered, small, large and solid. He could still do that with no problems, letting them melt away to nothing against the vacuumed carpet of his room, vanishing like steam. The problem wasn’t his magic, then, it was with him.

  “You’re overthinking it.”

  Papyrus squawked in surprise, spinning around, catching his legs in the duvet and landing face first onto the carpet, head propping up his body whilst the bed took his weight, tailbone jutting. Gaster was undulating by the door, expression unchanged, and Papyrus felt a jolt of panic edged with guilt at the fact that Sans would have absolutely heard the thud and would probably investigate.

  “He is at Grillby’s.”

  Sweet relief. Now he could fall over as much as he wanted without interruption. Forgetting his pain, he slowly propped himself up on his dominant hand, his dignity dictating that he try righting himself immediately. “HOW DID YOU KNOW?”

  “He left a note on your computer desk an hour ago. I read it.”

  “THAT WASN’T MEANT FOR YOU.”

  “Given our circumstances that hardly matters.” Gaster let his voice drop in timbre until it was like Sans’, low in tone but clipped in speech, not the drawl he usually had. “hey pap, going to grillby’s, gonna wish the kid well before they go. i’ll bring something back for you, a milkshake or something.” There was a pause as Gaster recalled the hastily scrawled portion at the bottom, necessary after the night before. “not gonna drink anything, don’t worry.”

  Oh thank God, they could still speak somewhat casually. It would be best to give him space, he deserved that.

  Papyrus suppressed a shudder at the voice that was clearly Sans’, but most markedly was not, though he couldn’t hide his respect for a magical ability that far surpassed his own. “THAT WAS ACTUALLY IMPRESSIVE. YOU’RE LIKE A GLOOPY ANSWERING MACHINE,” he admitted.

  “I try. As do you, I’ve noticed.”

  Papyrus was sat on the bed now, cover fully off himself and dignity clawed back, in a clean shirt and pajama bottoms. He stretched his body to reach over to the nearby table littered with figures and grabbed his scarf, wrapping it around his neck. That felt better, less exposed. “HOW DO YOU MEAN?”

  “Your magic. You have a lot of talent but your technique is abominable. The only thing you can consistently summon is bones, and what makes it worse is that you did grasp the basics of healing, but forgot it.” Gaster bristled visibly. “You’ve squandered quite the opportunity.”

  Papyrus brought his hand to his chin, pondering an idea. Very few people had the chance to ask the questions he could. “COULD I TEAR OFF MY SORE ARM, SUMMON ANOTHER ONE--”

  “No.”

  “--THEN KEEP IT IN PLACE WITH TAPE? WOULD THAT WORK?”

  “It would in the sense that your arm wouldn’t hurt any more. You cannot tape functional limbs to yourself, adhesives are not that strong.”

  “I’M NOT SURE ABOUT THAT, WE TAPED UP THE BROKEN WINDOW IN OUR OLD APARTMENT AND THAT HELD TOGETHER.”

  Gaster responded with a withering look, drifting closer. “I understand that you do not trust my opinion. But I do know what I’m talking about. I can provide you with better advice than Sans could, competent though he may be.”

  Papyrus swung his legs over the bed so he could sit normally, dully amused by the fact that the Royal Scientist materializing from the infinite blackness of the void to talk at him barely garnered a reaction anymore. “WHENEVER I WOULD START ASKING ABOUT MAGICAL TECHNIQUES, HE WOULD SHRUG AND GO....” He performed a motion that could only be described as lackluster jazz hands and continued, “’BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, MAN’. I THINK HE WAS JUST BEING LAZY.”

  Gaster looked out of the window absentmindedly. “I know. He tried to submit a paper on the magical properties of heat that contained nothing but a doodle of him shrugging with the caption...” He drifted closer still, until he was feet away, stood on the rug opposite the bed. “’Shit’s hot, yo’. Then he tried moonwalking out of the room.”

  Papyrus squinted his eyes, walling off his thoughts as best he could, unaware of its effectiveness. Gaster was speaking like a normal person would, holding a conversation as if nothing strange were happening. There was a thread here he could pull at, exploit. “... SO WHAT DO I DO? FOR HEALING MAGIC, I MEAN.”

  “It’s simple. Think destructively.”

  Papyrus tilted his head. “I DON’T FOLLOW.”

  “Think of it as crushing the pain under your strength. Use your force of will to overwhelm, then destroy it. Ruin it. Take it, bend it, break it. That is how you use healing magic.”

  Papyrus poked at the frays in his scarf, not understanding. “... THAT DOESN’T SOUND VERY... NURTURING, I SUPPOSE. OR SOMETHING THAT’S REALLY ASSOCIATED WITH HEALING.”

  “I agree. But it is by far the most consistent. It’s something I learned during the war, as a tutor. There are many things that have the capacity to make you angry. Better to use them to your advantage than to stew uselessly; harness the greatest, the most driving of all emotions.”

  Papyrus faltered before finding his resolve, his idealism. “... LOVE?” He said in all sincerity.

  “ _Spite_. If the pain is not enough, imagine it as someone you hate. That dog, perhaps, or yourself.”

  Papyrus intertwined his fingers, the comment unintentional in its sting which made it worse. He was lost in a situation far greater than himself, remembering his anger, how freeing it felt. Like a tide that would roll in and drag out; visceral, temporary feelings he knew; laughter then warmth, joy then ease, and now anger then sickening _relief._ He did not like this plan, this method. He did not like what it made him.

  “I DON’T THINK THIS SUITS ME. THERE MUST BE ANOTHER WAY.”

  Gaster drifted closer still until he was a foot away, then to Papyrus’ surprise began to sit.

  “DO NOT SIT DOWN, I AM NOT SURE WHAT YOU ARE MADE OF BUT I AM CERTAIN IT WON’T COME OUT. DO NOT GET YOUR MYSTICAL BIO-SLIME ON MY RACECAR BED, CONTRARY TO ITS FLASHY APPEARANCE I CANNOT DRIVE IT THROUGH A CAR WASH. PLEASE WAIT UNTIL I CAN FETCH A TOWEL.”

  “I’m not a mud-covered dog, I can control it. It’s the presence of my soul. And there are different methods, yes.”

  “THE COSMIC SOUL-SLUDGE HAD BETTER BE MACHINE WASHABLE.”

  Papyrus looked at Gasters face, arms tucked close to himself, pointing his body away. Antagonism was something that could be shrugged off easily, but this seemed like an attempt to help. Even if it was for exceptionally selfish reasons; Papyrus was in pain, which meant Gaster was in pain, which meant it needed to stop immediately. Optimism, genuine though tempered by his experiences, was blossoming in Papyrus. It felt nice. Good done for selfish reasons was still good, wasn’t it?

  “You could, of course, brute force your way through until you eventually stumble across a certain combination of those little rituals that just happens to heal you.”

  “THAT SOUNDS LIKE A PLAN.”

  Thoughts were running through Papyrus’ mind, the most prominent of which being ‘why are you here?’, which Gaster must have picked up on, though he did not answer. He just sat there, body pulsing, staring.

  There was a guest in his home, and in him. He was going to be polite, be good, be nice.

  “... DO YOU... DO YOU WANT SOMETHING TO EAT? TO DRINK?”

  “No.” Gaster stopped for a moment. “No, thank you,” he added.

  Papyrus liked to think he was brushed up on his etiquette, but the handbooks couldn’t possibly have accounted for this. He thought about what he would do at Undyne’s house, but prepared himself for a rebuke. “WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY A GAME?” He said out of habit.

  To his eternal surprise, Gaster did not answer immediately. He did not even say something dismissive.

  “... Fine. I will humor you.”

  Papyrus made a little noise of shock before collecting himself. Was he actually getting through? “EXCELLENT! PREPARE TO BE...” He thought of the term Sans would use. “'BUTTHURT’, BECAUSE I AM GOING TO WIN.” He started with the first thing that came to mind, simple, to gauge how far he could push this. “I SPY WITH MY LITTLE EYE, WHICH I DO NOT ACTUALLY POSSESS BUT FOR THE PURPOSES OF THIS GAME I MUST ASK YOU TO PLAY ALONG WITH, SOMETHING BEGINNING WITH-.”

  “Bookcase.”

  “UGH! FINE! I SPY WITH MY LITTLE EYE, WHICH I DO NOT-”

  “Might I request that you do _not_ do that each time?”

  “--SOMETHING BEGINNING--”

  “Computer.”

  There was a silence as Papyrus suppressed the urge to say something in a fit of petulance, feeling his foot twitch as he quelled the need to stamp it. He was going to get one complete sentence out, he didn’t even want to win anymore. “I SPY-”

  “The polished blue pebble you took from Waterfall one day because you liked its sheen, the one in the second drawer of your computer desk. It’s wedged between besides handfuls of drained batteries, a pack of tissues and painkillers you keep in case of headaches. That one. That is what I am spying.”

  “I CAN’T HELP BUT FEEL THAT YOUR MIND READING DEFEATS THE PURPOSE OF I-SPY. JUST A BIT. IF I WERE TO BE SO BOLD, PERHAPS EVEN A TAD,” Papyrus grumbled.

  “A smidge?”

  “AT THE VERY MOST.” How far did his mind reading go? Was it little glimpses, like watching through a fogged window, or was his psyche laid totally bare? Testing this, he though of a very specific question that had been plaguing him for years.

  Gaster looked back in disbelief, barely able to answer. “Papyrus. At no point in my life have I ever, ever wondered what horses would look like with hands instead of hooves. I don’t think anybody else has.”

  There was his answer. “YOU SHOULD. THEY WOULD BE HORRIFYING.”

  Papyrus strode over to his closet, throwing it open with dramatic flair and a point, revealing a pressed line of clothes and a pile of board games at the bottom, flanked by shoes and that figurine he had put away, brief curiosity put to bed.

  “TAKE YOUR PICK!” He challenged.

  “Chess.”

  Papyrus hunched down to root through the collection, turning his head slightly so he could be better heard. “WONDERFUL! I SHOULD WARN YOU, I AM ACTUALLY PRETTY GOOD. YOU WILL BE DRAWN IN LIKE SOME KIND OF BLACK HOLE, BUT MADE OF FRIENDSHIP INSTEAD OF SPACE STUFF AND DEATH.”

  Gaster did not respond, room silent save for the sound of cardboard and Papyrus mumbling to himself as he looked. It was here somewhere! He had to replace his last set after Undyne tried to mash the pieces together to make them ‘fight’, despite Papyrus’ protests.

  “There are so many possible moves that it will be difficult for me to tell what you will do. It is fair.” Gaster let his eyes wander across the room, to the bookcase, to the computer on the far side, the desk to his left filled with lavish figurines, before looking back to Papyrus.

  He wasn’t such bad company. Not really. The faintest wisp, the tiniest dreg of affection left over from Sans, blew through him, and with it...

  Guilt?

  It could not have been. He crushed it. He deserved this, to be magic, to feel. It was Gaster’s right.

  “It’s to your left, besides the robot figure, the one with the long legs that I like.”

  Papyrus shot him a glance, cheeks burning.

  “Well, that is not accurate, I do not care for it myself. But you certainly seem to like it--”

  “FOUND IT!” Papyrus interrupted. “WOW, I AM SO GLAD WE’RE GOING TO BE PLAYING CHESS INSTEAD OF TALKING ABOUT SEXY ROBOTS, WHICH IS ABSOLUTELY NOT UP FOR DISCUSSION,” he blared in an attempt to move on. He shot up, before swinging around, all too hurriedly, dropping the set onto the table and hastily removing the pieces.

  Gaster looked up bemusedly, preparing himself to stand up and drift over. “There is nothing to be ashamed of,” he pressed, “It is perfectly normal to mast--”

  “ _WELL, THANK GOD WE AREN’T TALKING ABOUT THIS, OTHERWISE I WOULD NEED TO THROW QUITE THE CONNIPTION AND TOSS MYSELF OUT OF THE WINDOW! BLACK OR WHITE?!_ ” Papyrus barked, thoroughly flustered.

  Gaster did move on, much to Papyrus’ relief, though he did chuckle at his discomfort. “Black.”

  “ _COOL, LETS_ \--” he took in a breath to even out his volume, “LETS START. HORSEY TO E5.”

  “Good God, you don’t even know the name of the pieces. Knight to C6.”

 

* * *

 

  “UNO!”

  “ _That is not what you say in chess._ ”

  “REALLY?” Papyrus was sat in a wooden chair, carefully examining the state of the board in front of him. It sounded like the right thing. It meant ‘one’, because he was in first place. “THEN WHAT DO I SAY?”

  Gaster was sat in another, around the tables edge, a clear request for space which he honored since he had taken his prodding too far. “You say...” He leaned closer in dawning surprise. “You say check.”

  “CHECK!”

  It was Gasters turn now, his confidence wavering. He was the Royal Scientist and he might lose to some rube. He took his turn, moving his king.

  Papyrus decisively moved his bishop in response. “CHECKMATE,” he chirped.

  “Excuse me?”

  “CHECKMATE. I WON. I THINK THAT’S WHAT YOU SAY. _CHECKMATE._ ”

  Gaster leaned forward, he couldn’t have lost. He looked over each individual square, the pieces they contained. He had only wanted to show up to force Papyrus to heal himself, but this.

  This could not stand.

  “Another.”

  Papyrus was already putting the pieces back. “ANOTHER _PLEASE_.”

  There was the soft click of wood against wood, each piece painstakingly centered and facing forward.

  “You’re being pedantic.”

  “I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, SO I’M GOING TO ASSUME IT’S A COMPLIMENT IN LOSER-SPEAK. THANK YOU!”

  Gaster did not look amused. He had been beaten. He had allowed himself a level playing field and he had been beaten. He deserved to win.

  The game began again, the atmosphere thicker now. Papyrus broke the silence, seeing if he could push the situation just enough to resemble an average conversation, test his luck. Satisfy his curiosity.

  “YOU MENTIONED THE WAR EARLIER, THE HUMAN-MONSTER WAR I ASSUME--?”

  “No, it was one of those _other_ wars. Yes, that one.”

  Papyrus rolled his eyes but pressed on. “... SO YOU’VE SEEN THE SURFACE? YOU MUST HAVE BEFORE--” he motioned to the mountain around them. “... WHAT’S IT LIKE? I MEAN, REALLY LIKE, I KNOW I CONJURED UP SOMETHING SIMILIAR--”

  “It was beautiful,” Gaster responded firmly, “but I do not miss it.”

  “YOU MUST. HOW COULD YOU NOT? YOU COULD SEE THE STARS!”

  Gaster looked up clearly recalling something. It hit Papyrus that before him was a Monster that had actually existed, lived an entire lifetime, who had, at one point, hopes, dreams and fears. But now he was something more. Papyrus didn’t want to go as far as to say ‘an abomination’, a more charitable description would have been ‘different’ and thus he forced himself to use that. Not Gaster as in the emptiness, Dr. Gaster the scientist.

  “Papyrus,” he said quietly, absorbing the light around him like tar, not taking his turn, “do you have any idea how many Monsters there are?” He already knew Papyrus’ answer, but he needed to hear it.

  “IN THE UNDERGROUND? UH...” Sans had mentioned it offhandedly one day, years ago, something he needed to know during construction of the Core. “FIFTEEN-THOUSAND?”

  “Twenty-thousand at last count, but it will be more than that. Now tell me,” he continued, “how many do you think there were before the war?”

  Papyrus had no idea, the past a vast miasma of events he knew had happened but couldn’t envision. He doubled the figure, that seemed like a large number. “... FORTY-THOUSAND?”

  “Tens of millions. It would have been more, but barriers to reproduction ensured the population hovered at that amount. Humans had no such issues.”

  Ah, that, the little equation all Monsters memorized but didn’t speak of. If you and your partner were not similar enough in form then you could not conceive a child, the mechanics of it falling between ‘difficult’ and ‘impossible’. Not that it stopped people trying, of course--wait.

  Millions.

  Tens of millions.

  Papyrus gasped as the full realization washed over him, heavy with the weight of death. “OH MY GOD,” he wheezed, like dust was clogging his throat. An absurdly high number he couldn’t possibly contemplate.

  There was a horrifying silence between them, Gaster still and Papyrus pressing his hand to his mouth to stop himself from hyperventilating.

  “THAT’S... OH MY GOD.”

  “I know.”

  “THERE MUST BE OTHER UNDERGROUNDS! SO MANY MONSTERS COULDN’T... THEY JUST--”

  Gaster held his chin in genuine, and for once, respectful, contemplation. “There may be. But I do not think there is.”

  Papyrus was shaking, balling his fists around his scarf in response to something he always knew in the back of his mind, but ignored. “THERE MUST BE.”

  Gaster sat up straight, like he was answering questions on a podium. “Our king and queen are here, in this mountain. We were all kept alive as an example. That is my theory. Tens of millions did not take part in the war, but tens of millions died.”

  Papyrus gasped and clutched at his face, his jaw, in disbelief. Not all humans could have been so cruel, it was an impossibility.

  “It didn’t require all humans to be cruel,” Gaster said in response to his thoughts. “Merely some. That is what stings the most."

  “NOT THAT MILLIONS ARE DEAD _?_ ” Papyrus balked.

  “That as well, of course. I take no delight in that we were all cut down in an orgy of violence, but I bemoan the fact we didn’t put up a bigger fight. I wanted to see how many Human souls a Monster could absorb. The most I have ever encountered was eight, and it blot out the sun before it was cut down, nothing but tendrils and eyes. It was astonishing.”

  Something Papyrus came to know as disgust tore through him as he knew he was at the mercy of a creature with wildly skewed priorities, something he would need to choke back if he wanted to grasp at this thread of conversation. There must be good in him, as there is good in everyone, an immutable fact. The conversing earlier had been auspicious, but the games were promising.

  But good didn’t necessarily mean pleasant.

  “I served as an instructor to the military as I was too weak to be conscripted as frontline infantry,” Gaster said, hands clasped, “and trained the footsoldiers in magic use. That was what I did before I became a scientist, though I did already have my doctorate. I could transform the most talentless monster into a killing machine with a little tutelage. Barring myself, of course," he chuckled darkly, “sending me onto the battlefield would have been a suicide mission. And I can tell you, as someone who saw the war, the genocide, that the surface is not worth it. How many humans do you think there are alive right now?”

  Papyrus found it difficult to speak, imagining a number so grotesquely huge it could not possibly be a real guess. “FIVE-HUNDRED-MILLION.”

  “Seven billion. Seven billion humans, Papyrus. All with the capacity to kill us all. At least, under normal circumstances.”

  Papyrus couldn’t imagine seven billion of anything, nevermind thinking, living beings. “NOT ALL. FRISK ISN’T LIKE THAT.”

  “Half of the time, it isn’t like that half of the time. But the other half it is, and you die, and everyone dies.”

  Papyrus looked to the chessboard between them, game stagnant. “I DO NOT WANT TO PLAY THIS GAME ANYMORE. NOT WHEN YOU TALK ABOUT MY FRIEND LIKE THAT.”

  “You have very low standards, if that killing machine is your friend. It is the reason you are in this situation.”

  “FRISK IS NOT AN ‘IT’,” he bit back, “AND YOU SEEM TO BE FORGETTING YOUR PART IN THIS.”

  “It is human. It cannot think or feel in the way we do, none of them can.”

  “THEY CAN FEEL MORE THAN YOU DO, YOU ABOMINATION.”

  Gaster looked back quizzically. “Those millions were dead before we started, and they still will be when we are finished. I do not understand why this should interrupt our fun. Please calm down, you are being exceptionally selfish.”

  Papyrus stared in response, horrified, jaw agape.

  “WHY ARE YOU HERE?”

  “Because I wanted to talk to you.”

  Papyrus steeled his voice, squaring his shoulders to make himself feel bigger. “WHY,” he reaffirmed, “ARE YOU HERE? YOU TOLD ME HOW TO FIX MY ARM AND I DISREGARDED IT.”

  Gaster did not answer, but moved his piece in response.

  “THE GAME IS OVER.”

  “There are still moves to be made.”

  Papyrus was stood up now, pacing. “THEN I CONCEDE! ANSWER THE QUESTION!”

  Gaster watched him as he walked back and forth, thudding footsteps, echoes of the night before, but this time the anger was very much concentrated. “Your arm. Try now.”

  Without thinking, Papyrus let out a noise of disgust as he summoned his magic in a burst, expecting it to fizzle and pop impotently. Instead, warmth rushed like blood to his hands, the chips and scrapes, and knit themselves back together in one effortless sweep.

 “You are welcome.”

  Papyrus had stopped moving, staring at his arm in fear.

  “You are very easy to irritate. I thought it was obvious I didn’t believe what I was saying. The child is pleasant enough, bar their rampant murder.” He looked to the game he had won, his pieces placing him at a disadvantage, though that no longer mattered. “Would you like another?”

  “N-NO, I DON’T THINK I WOULD.”

  “Then I will leave you to it. I had my doubts, but as always I was correct. With the right push you would make a fine soldier, I do not know why the fish does not try harder.”

  “HER NAME,” Papyrus said, shaking but firm, ridiculous in his shirt and pants, far from his battle-body, "IS UNDYNE.”

  Gaster stood up, smaller in stature but grander in presence, ignoring him as you would a child. “You were right. I have enjoyed our time together.” He looked back to the board, smiling in earnest. “Though I wish we could have had a final game, we could always play later, it has been a difficult few days. Goodbye, friend.”

  He vanished in a puff, with a smile.

  Papyrus’ arm was healed, but he felt no better, staring at that game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaster and Papyrus play a game, the skeletal spank bank makes its thrilling reappearance, and Papyrus learns about the war. Then Gaster ruins it by trashbagging all over the place. 
> 
> (If you're wondering what the difference between a skeletal spank bank and a normal one is, the skeletal one is a little more BARE BONES. Thank you, I'm here all week.)


	32. Different

  Facial expressions were astonishing.

  Little quirks of muscle, every errant twitch of pupil, every flick of the eyelid, all inextricably linked, all telling. Difficult to feign, impossible to hide, and with the right eye, easy to read. Sans counted himself lucky in that he did have that eye, and he considered himself luckier still for having enjoyed the sport. That is what it was, a little distraction, a sport. Much in the way a person admires a great athlete for performing feats of skill; swimming impossible distances, running at breakneck speed, lifting the heaviest weights, Sans would look over those flicks, those twitches, with precision and reverence. Not tinged with envy, he would always be quick to point out, he had been given his lot in life and if that included not being able to move his jaw without screaming then that was that. If he were being honest, it probably made his life a little easier. People assumed he was always relaxed and smiling, and more often than not he was. But on those occasions when he wasn’t, he could listen in, pick and drag at threads, poke holes in peoples stories. He could be cutting.

  He did not need that knowledge, that skill, to tell that something was very wrong with Papyrus. It had been laid bare, displayed for all to see like a sick trophy, the events finally sinking in and leaving their imprint like setting concrete.

  Sans, even on his worst days, did not use violence. Not without a justifiable reason of which he knew only a few. If there was an immediate threat to his life then he would defend himself. Never as stress relief, he could go on long, sulking walks or blast music until the worst of it passed. The problem with anger is that, once it is expressed through brutality, it sticks. It comes in and tears out a piece of you like a barbed hook, bleeding and seeping and spreading. The tension is unbearable, the relief is immediate, the regret stings but never enough to ward off the future. The issue was not with the tree, not really. It was the association. Once you associate relief, sweet relief with broken arms and cracked fingers, then what was the point in trying anything else? It was loud, and immediate, and impulsive. Unfortunately, there was the creeping possibility that it was very ‘Papyrus’.

  Papyrus, gentle, sweet Papyrus, had cut into that tree like it was his worst enemy. Papyrus, who would trust so blindly and love so freely, had raised his hands in anger. Papyrus, filled with self loathing, was a deeply troubled man able to see the good in everyone except himself.

  He had broken his finger, torn at his hand and not even noticed, too blinded to do so.

  Sans couldn’t tell if the playful banter they shared was genuine, or if Papyrus was suppressing spats of rage each time. Was that his irritation, good-natured only because it needed to be? He felt a part of himself die, every interaction framed differently in his mind. Every joke, every barb, every comment stung like poison. All retroactive. All fit for scrutiny.

  Papyrus, if he were to continue, would be exceptionally dangerous. To himself, mostly, a hurricane of magic and accidental self-mutilation.

  To others...?

  Maybe. It would not be deliberate, which made it hurt more. It could never be. He would never fall so far, even his awful comment had been a clear effort to end the conversation. At least Sans could rationalize his behavior somewhat.

  The door clicked open softly, quiet and measured as if he were intruding in a strangers house. Sans walked into the dark living room, frigid air from the outside blowing in clumps of ice. It was best that the kid be moving on, if this was the atmosphere they would be greeted with.

  Pappy, his brother, who always stomped back and forth in front of the window as a child with his ‘super cool guard march’, always fit, always strong, always training, was _scary_.

  At the noise, Sans heard Papyrus bound out of his room to look over the staircase, huge smile plastered on his face, insistently motioning to his injured arm. His gloves were off, but there was a dressing covering part of his ulna, hastily applied.

  “S-SANS!” He looked happy, or at least was trying to, high brows knit together in guilt. “I FIGURED OUT HOW TO USE MY MAGIC, LOOK!” He pointed to his arm, smooth and even, its basis sickening him. But it was worth it, wasn’t it? If it helped?

  Sans looked back from his position at the bottom of the stairs, in an old t-shirt that didn’t suit him, blankly, any pride dulled by his ruminations. “that’s cool.”

  Papyrus was grabbing onto the railing, leaning forward, waiting for some kind of praise to show they were back to their own selves.

  There was none.

  The silence was as thick as tar and Papyrus spoke before it drowned him. “IT MEANS I CAN FIX YOU UP, RIGHT AS RAIN! LAST NIGHT...” He pointed grandly at himself in a stupid pose, it no longer coming so naturally to him. “WELL, WE CAN MOVE ON!”

  Sans continued looking upwards, eyes bleary like frosted glass.

  “R-RIGHT?”

  More thudding silence, slipping between his ribs like a knife.

  Sans thought to the night before, still sore, still hurting. “yeah. sure.” It lacked conviction, the platitude of somebody that had been struck deep down.

  Papyrus was leaning over the banister to look down at Sans, craning like a gargoyle, bones stretching and creaking. He knew he shouldn’t force optimism, force cheerfulness, but it came so naturally. It was all he had ever known. “WELL, I’LL MAKE A HEADSTART! THEN WE’LL BOTH FEEL SO MUCH BETTER!”

  Sans was still at the door, off-white shirt and old jogging bottoms, scuffed and scraped and above all, weary. Of course he had been a bad guardian, a bad example. What else could he have been? He cursed himself for being so optimistic, for talking about it, because of course the universe would see it as some kind of challenge to meet.

  Papyrus was running down the stairs, not taking the time to even out his shirt as it bunched up, hunched, left arm crackling slightly.

  The logical part of Sans’ mind, the part he had worked and trained, the part that let him see clearly, precise like a scalpel, knew it was healing magic, that it would soothe his soul, that Papyrus was running to help him.

  The part he had been nurturing the whole night, thinking and obsessive, confused and frightened, did not.

  He flinched, palms crackling defensively like something terrible were approaching. In that split second he more than ready to fire on the threat, do or die, fight or flight. The part of himself that he had no direct control over, dedicated to keeping him alive, had intervened.

  Papyrus froze.

  Nothing was said, but they both knew something terrible had happened. An event that would slip through Sans’ memory eventually, but would stay with Papyrus forever.

  They both stood stock still, feet away, wedged in their poses even as their magic fizzled away.

  “YOU...” Papyrus didn’t sound like himself, high voice gravelly with a sting he had never known before. “YOU THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO HURT YOU?”

  Sans let his arms droop to show he wasn’t a threat. “i didn’t, it’s just... i’m really sorry, man,” He shifted from foot to foot, finding difficulty in expressing his point. “you’ve been really angry lately, and i thought maybe--look, i didn’t mean--”

  “THAT’S ANOTHER WAY OF SAYING YES,” Papyrus bit back.

  Sans scowled, the look in his eyes more than making up for his mouth. “holy shit, you don’t even hear yourself, do you? this is what i'm talking about.”

  They stared at each other, eyes locked, brute strength backed with heat, icy-blue magic tinged with bitterness. Papyrus was holding a broken bone he had summoned without noticing, sharpened like a shiv, Sans felt the pressure of his own magic run through and over him like a current. They might fight. They would both lose.

  Papyrus let his stance drop first, all tension going slack. “... SANS?”

  Sans responded in kind, firmness to his posture cracking and crumbling. “... yeah, papyrus?”

  The weight of it all, what he was doing, his goals, his dreams, was pushing at his bones until it felt like he was going to snap. “WHAT'S HAPPENED TO ME?”

  Sans went to stuff his hands into his hoodie pockets before remembering that was no longer an option. Instead he awkwardly tugged at the hem of his shirt. “i got no clue, man. you ain’t you.”

  Papyrus had balled his fists up. “BUT THEN WHO AM I?”

  He waited for an answer that would solve all of his problems in one swoop, fix every stupid mistake he had ever made, force Sans to love him as he once did, no longer tinged with fear.

  Sans looked away. “i know i said i’d get you a milkshake, but... yeah, i’m gonna be upstairs.”

  He trudged to the stairs, Papyrus’ gaze fixed on the wall in front of him. One thud, then another, then another, staccato, uneven.

  “the kid’s doing all right, by the way. thought you’d like to know.”

  Papyrus swung around quickly, Sans flinching again on the stairs. “OH GOD. OH GOD, YOU’RE SCARED OF ME, I’M SO SORRY, I’M SO-- I WOULD NEVER HURT YOU, NEVER, NEVER.”

  “i wasn’t scared of you,” Sans said quietly, “when you freaked out. i think i pushed that to the back of my mind to make you feel better, y’know? but now that there’s been a little time...”

  Papyrus waited expectantly, choking back fat gobs of tears. It was easier, now. He was practiced.

  “i’m scared _for_ you, and i don’t know how to... how to deal with it, with you.”

  ‘With you’, like he was a rabid animal nobody could bring themselves to put down. “I’M SORRY FOR SUMMONING A WEAPON.”

  “yeah. i’m sorry for nearly hitting you.” His foot shuffled on the last stair in the house, slowly trudging to his room, just reaching the door.

  “I LOVE YOU.”

  The door clicked softly. He must not have heard. That was the reason.

  Tentatively, the door opened just a tad. “uh, love you too, pap.”

  So he knew, but had hesitated.

  Papyrus had always known his limits, he only did good things, and thus that made him a good person. But after all of this, could he still call himself that?

  He was left in the living room, rocking on his heels, rubbing his arms to comfort himself. He had done all of this to protect Sans, but was under the mistaken impression that he would remain static, unmoving under the weight he had given himself. The resets had not forced this upon him. Gaster had not forced this upon him. Papyrus had shifted under the pressure, seething, scared and alone. Even with the resets, how could he get by like this? Sans would notice each time. In an effort to ease himself, he began imagining hypothetical situations, little spirals of thought to lose himself in.

  It was under the assumption that the action would fix everything, make everything alright, everyone would be sweet and happy and would love him. He started slow.

  Would you give up cooking, if things could go back to the way they were years ago? “I WOULD,” he mumbled to himself like a mantra.

  Would you lie? “I _HAVE_ LIED, AND I WOULD AGAIN,” he said, going down the checklist.

  Would you steal from a friend? “I WOULD, IF IT WOULD FIX EVERYTHING. IT’S FOR A GOOD REASON.”

  Would you maim someone? He paused at this one, picturing a pure hypothetical scenario in which his survival depended on him breaking a leg, shuddering at the image. In this world, this falsified example, there would be no blood, no pain, no dust, his victim would understand. They would not die. With those conditions, he nodded an ‘affirmative’ to himself. “I-I WOULD. I WOULD DO IT,” he choked, horrified at who he was, what he had become. Something to be feared.

  The voice in his mind was not his own, probing for answers it already knew, grasping at his thoughts with thin fingers.

  Would you kill?

  Papyrus flinched like he had been struck. He took in a ragged, deep breath. He was clawing at his arm, the metal, picking and scraping the until fine flecks of bone fell like snow, the inner layers exposed and burning like iron, gut twisting.

  He knew his answer. A fine soldier indeed, willing to make such sacrifices for the Greater Good.

  He heard Gaster in his mind, in him, speaking softly. “Then I have an idea.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter to tide you over before shit gets real
> 
> the original title for this fic was 'papyrus has a bad time', fun fact


	33. Guard

  Sans leaned over from his seat, pulling out a small package from behind his back and stuffing it into Papyrus’ hands. “happy birthday!”

  “MY BIRTHDAY IS TOMORROW.”

  “ah _fuck_.”

  It was hot, ruthlessly hot, cloyingly, disgustingly hot, the nature of the mountain trapping heat in the summer. Every window was open, every fan they could find was on, but the house still reeked of sweat, the humidity sticking to their bones. Papyrus was splayed on the couch, trying to let the air from the nearby fan hit as much of him as possible, Sans in the smaller seat to his side.

  “i managed to wrangle a day off and all, dammit...” He punctuated his point with a little slap to his forehead, regretting the movement when he had to peel his hand away, clammy. “ugh, i’m really sorry. if i don’t show up tomorrow dr. gaster is gonna be so butthurt. we’re gonna be conducting ground tests, seeing if the thermodynamic properties of magical--”

  Papyrus was smiling, brows knit together in preemptive confusion, already knowing he wouldn’t understand what was happening. Sans picked up on it.

  “science is gonna be happening all over the place, dude. tons of it.”

  Papyrus made a noise of understanding, finally grasping the concept. Cheerfully, he puffed out his chest, ready to lift Sans’ mood. “YOU DON’T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT THAT! IT WILL JUST BE NICE TO SPEND TIME WITH YOU!”

  It stuck. “aww, thanks man.” Sans scratched at the nape of his neck, smiling a little in his eyes. It was going to be a sentimental day, he could tell. If he was going to cry, he was going to make a point of doing so stoically, pridefully, rather than being a weeping mess.

  Papyrus was looking at the package in his hand curiously, the paper sticking to his fingers. It long and flat, slab-like. Maybe it was a new book? He looked over to Sans for permission, just in case he had changed his mind, thinking it would be best to wait.

  “go ahead.”

  Papyrus tore into it like an animal would gouge at meat, crisp brown paper torn aside to reveal...

  More paper, the package wrapped in another layer underneath.

  “c’mon dude,” Sans said, shoulders shaking from suppressed laughter, “don’t you want to open it?”

  Papyrus felt a jape coming on, but laughed good-naturedly.

  Another tear, another rip, another layer of paper.

  “breakin’ my heart, pap. i get you a gift, give it to you early...” he said, failing to keep his voice flat, “and you don’t even open it. cruel.”

  Yet another bout of tearing, and again, yet another layer of paper.

  “I’M GOING TO GET TO THE PRESENT AND IT’S GOING TO BE SOMETHING SMALL, LIKE A MARBLE, ISN’T IT?”

  “you’re putting way too much faith in my wrapping skills.”

  Three more layers of paper until Papyrus was clawing at it, tearing through many folds at once, etiquette discarded. Brown parcel paper littered the couch around him. Eventually, he felt a clack against his finger, and he dragged the rest of the wrapping off. It was a clipboard with a piece of paper on it.

  “SANS...” he said, pausing for dramatic effect, “I LOVE IT!”

  “that’s great,” Sans said flatly, fanning himself. “you should probably read the paper.”

  Papyrus did so, sockets fixed on the gently flapping sheet, corner pinched to keep it in place. “HOW...” he said, whimsy dropping out of his voice, hushed. “HOW DID YOU MANAGE THIS?”

  “friends in high places,” he beamed.

  It was an application for the Royal Guard, its recruiting papers scare, almost impossible to get ahold of. It was to prevent a deluge of petitions from flooding the unit, some genuine inquiries, some slightly unhinged expressions of Monster patriotism. The only other way was to impress the Captain, and from the little pieces Papyrus had gleaned she was a formidable woman, tough like rubble. She sounded cool, only taking on the toughest of the toughest, the best of the best.

  Luckily Papyrus was both!

  “i thought you’d like it, since you can apply now.” He coughed gently, correcting himself. “well, tomorrow. it’s still kind of illegal. technically you shouldn’t be holding that.”

  Papyrus let out a shrill squawk, his dreams finally within grabbing distance after years of hoping, lunging forward to grab Sans into a crushing hug. “OHHH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, IT’S HAPPENING, THANK YOU, THANK YOU! I THOUGHT I WOULD HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL THEY PRINTED MORE!”

  Sans’ neck was taking a lot of the weight, so he moved himself slightly. “ah, no point in you waiting a year, man.” They enjoyed the moment, close and happy, a crystallization of their combined hopes. Everything was going to be alright.

  A few pats to the back and Papyrus was out of the hug, scooping up the clipboard, devouring the information ravenously. He could be drafted into its military division, training to protect in case the Humans ever invaded, or police under its banner, solving crimes within the kingdom. The war had killed almost all of both parties, so it was way easier to conglomerate the two and split troops based on preference. He was going to do so much good, he was going to help so many people, he would drown in a shower of kisses!

  It was subtle, but Sans’ face fell, very slightly, as Papyrus began examining the police-work section first.

  “WOWIE,” he chirped, “I THINK I WOULD BE GOOD AT THIS! APPREHENDING BAD GUYS, KEEPING THE STREETS SAFE, I’LL BE A NATURAL!”

  Sans didn’t want to burst the bubble, but he had to. It was the right thing to do. “papyrus,” he said gently, Papyrus’ gut twisting slightly in response, “do you know what that would _actually_ involve?”

  Papyrus scoffed in response. “YEAH. ARRESTING PEOPLE THAT DO BAD THINGS, THEN REHABILITATION, OBVIOUSLY.”

  Sans winced, what was technically the truth twisted to see the best in everyone. “yeah, sort of. and if that’s what you want then i’ll back you. but... “ He clicked his phalanges off against one another, wishing Papyrus would default to military service, training for a war that wouldn’t come instead of being faced with the horrors of reality, the worst that people could be. “there’s some real sick puppies out there, dude. people that you can’t bring around.”

  Papyrus laughed, grand and free, high with denial. “NO SUCH THING.”

  “you’ll have to deal with murderers. people that torture. people that hurt kids.”

  Papyrus wasn’t laughing anymore, brain scrambling. “I-I PROBABLY WON’T BE ASSIGNED TO DEAL WITH THOSE KINDS OF PEOPLE. THERE ARE LOTS OF CRIMINALS THAT ARE JUST IN A TIGHT SPOT, PEOPLE THAT STEAL JUST TO GET BY!”

  Again, somewhat true. Sans had been one of them, stealing armfuls of food, enough for two, years ago. “you can’t pick and choose, dude. if they let you in, that’s it. you gotta deal with the dude stealing bread to feed his family just like you gotta deal with some other dude _beating_ his family. i hate to be the asshole here, but i gotta tell you, some people do awful, unforgivable things.” Sans felt guilt prickle at him, not wanting to puncture his innocence, but he couldn’t abstain in good conscience. They wouldn’t let him police anyway, he suspected.

  Papyrus was quiet, pensive. He was thinking, mood dipping. Immediately, he snapped back to his chipper demeanor. “WELL, THAT WAS ONLY ONE OPTION! I COULD JOIN THE MILITARY INSTEAD, CAPTURE SOME HUMANS!”

  Sans sighed in relief. “yeah, that sounds like a plan. you can fill out the form, show up, then flex a bunch. they’ll need to let you in after that.”

  Papyrus laughed, head thrown back against the couch. “THAT WAS, WORD FOR WORD, MY PLAN. I HOPE THEY WILL APPRECIATE MY STRONG BONES!”

  Mirth washed over Sans’ face, but was cut off before he could express it.

  “IF YOU SAY ‘THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID’ I WILL LOSE MY MIND.”

  Sans face fell back naturally, picking up once again as he thought of something else.

  “DITTO ‘THAT’S WHAT HE SAID’. I AM ON TO YOUR LAZY JOKES, SANS. I AM ON TO THEM.”

  Gah, foiled again! There was no way he could--

  Wait.

  _Wait_.

  “hey papyrus,” he said, giggles already bubbling up from the pit of his ribs.

  Papyrus sighed in preparation, unable to ward of what was surely going to be a pun. “YES, SANS?”

  “you're pa _-bi-_ rus.”

  “OH, I THOUGHT IT WAS PRETTY OBVIOUS THAT--”

  Sans was snickering, brief bout of obliviousness making it appear far funnier than it was. Papyrus was perfectly still, probably building up to some outburst.

  “CREDIT WHERE IT IS DUE,” he clipped, “I’VE NEVER HEARD THAT ONE BEFORE. I HAVE BEEN BESTED IN THE ‘SKELETAL PUNS ABOUT MY SEXUAL ORIENTATION’ CATEGORY, WHICH I HAVE JUST HAD TO INVENT.”

  Sans looked on smugly, enjoying the moment. “shit man,” he said, proudly, “you’re like a mini adult.”

  “I’M AN _ADULT_ ADULT, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. I’LL BE EIGHTEEN, HOW MUCH MORE MATURE COULD I POSSIBLY GET?”

  “oh, you are gonna look back on that sentence and laugh. a lot. so much.”

  Papyrus huffed indignantly, pulling his shirt out from underneath his pits, cringing. Ew. “I’M SURE I WILL, FROM MY MOUNTAIN OF COOL TOPS, WHICH I WILL HAVE MADE MYSELF, ALL TAILORED. BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT COOL ADULTS DO.”

  Sans was caught off guard. “you’ve got different ‘tailored’ crop-tops? i thought you just took what you could get.”

  Papyrus shook his shoulders, limbering up, ready to explain his system. “SANS, PLEASE, THERE’S A DEGREE OF SUBTLETY TO MY NEON SHIRT COLLECTION. HONESTLY! FOR EXAMPLE, THE RIB-EXPOSURE SYSTEM. IT’S ADJUSTED FOR DIFFERENT EVENTS AND MOODS.” Papyrus brought his finger down to point at his lowest rib, hands clammy. “TOPS THAT FALL HERE ARE FOR EVERYDAY WEAR, BOTH COOL _AND_ CASUAL. JUST ENOUGH TO SAY ‘HEY EVERYONE, I AM A SKELETON! LOOK, HERE IS MY SPINE!’.

  Sans slouched back in his chair, pondering. “alright, alright, i’m with you so far.”

  Papyrus moved his hand up by a few ribs in demonstration. “TOPS THAT FALL HERE ARE FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS, WEDDINGS AND FUNERALS.”

  Sans broke character, forgetting to play along. “ _funerals_?”

  “VERY INFORMAL FUNERALS.” Papyrus poked at his own top, which was residing in the ‘casual’ zone.

  “what about the areas above that?”

  The tiniest tint of color fell on Papyrus’ face, which Sans put down to heat as he didn’t want to mull on the alternative. “DATE NIGHTS.”

  “gah, wow, okay, i get the picture.” He shook his head a little to shift the image from his mind. Unpleasant.

  Papyrus looked Sans up and down, who looked like he was melting into the seat, staring up at the ceiling fan. “WHEN I MAKE YOURS, YOU WILL UNDERSTAND.”

  Sans scratched at the side of his skull, chuckling. “uh, i appreciate the offer but that ain’t my style. thanks though.” He paused in serious thought, harrowed. As quickly as the look came, it vanished.

  “WHAT WAS THAT?”

  Sans made a ‘hm?’ noise, half paying attention.

  “THAT LOOK! DO YOU HAVE ANOTHER JAPE AFOOT? ANOTHER PUN?”

  He shrugged. “i’ve probably set one up and forgot about it. nah, that ain’t it. i was thinking.”

  Papyrus let the room fill with silence, letting the vacuum draw out more information.

  “it kind of hit me, i don’t know how long we’ll live..?” His eyes widened, shocked he had said that out loud. He rushed to explain himself. “’cause y’know, there’s some old-ass monsters running around, then you get the ones that die in their twent--” he cut himself off, cursing his own brusqueness. “can’t use anybody in our family for reference.”

  “WE MIGHT HAVE A VERY LONG TIME,” Papyrus said, plainly. “AND EVEN IF WE DON’T, I’LL COUNT MYSELF LUCKY TO SPEND IT WITH A COOL BROTHER LIKE YOU!”

  Here came the waterworks, right on cue, Sans choking them back immediately. “thanks, pap. don't worry, i’m gonna go out of this world the same way i came in.”

  Papyrus went to soothe Sans, thinking the statement was genuine.

  “screaming and covered in gore.”

  Laughter, full, barking and hideous hit Papyrus. “THAT WAS _AWFUL_.”

  “yeah, i’m glad you’re not laughing otherwise you’d be huge hypocrite.”

  Papyrus steadied his shoulders, evening out his breathing, dabbing the water in the corner of his eye. “NOT AT ALL! NOT EVEN A CHUCKLE.”

  “sure.”

  Papyrus looked back fondly, trusting. “THANK YOU.”

  Sans clicked his teeth together, the motion distracting him from his beading tears. “you already thanked me man, don’t worry about it.”

  “NO,” he replied, “FOR BEING HONEST.”

  Papyrus couldn’t cope with the idea of people hurting children, couldn't deal with it, and thus was not cut out for police work. There was no shame in that. Instead, Papyrus was going to do something _amazing_.

  He was loved, and he was going to be loved, by everyone. What a cool knight he would be!

 

* * *

 

   “You can’t retreat to your memories, Papyrus. You can’t do this forever.”

  “I-I CAN, AND I WILL.”

  “You know full well you must kill the child.”

  “I DON’T WANT TO, PLEASE, _PLEASE_ ,” he sobbed, snot dripping, fat, undignified, pleading tears, “PLEASE JUST LET ME STAY HERE, LET ME _STAY._ ” He was outside, he didn’t know where, he didn’t care.

  “Ethically,” Gaster replied, “I can’t let you.”

  All at once, the scene he remembered, the one he loved so much, cracked and died in his mind.

  "At least let me explain."

  Papyrus was going to do something _terrible_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i managed to wrangle some free time, here's the newest chapter! the rare double whammy of pre-fuckery papyrus and chill sans.


	34. Look

  Papyrus realized dully that he had walked to the outside of town in a daze, vacant and empty, enjoying the pleasant lulls and flows of his memories until he was forcibly ejected, hit with reality like his ribs had been broken. He had to get out of this, he couldn’t kill, he wouldn’t, it wasn’t ‘him’, it would never be ‘him’. “WHAT WOULD BE THE POINT? THEY ARE MY FRIEND.”

  No response. He would need to change his approach, pleading wouldn’t work, though he would continue to do so.

  “THEY WOULD RESET, I WOULD RATHER WAIT, EVEN IF SANS--” he choked. “EVEN IF SANS IS SCARED OF ME. NEXT TIME HE WON’T BE, NEXT TIME I’LL DO GOOD. KILLING FRISK WOULD BE A POINTLESS EXERCISE! PLEASE.”

  Gaster was stood in front, hands clasped behind his back, surprising solidity, to his form, looking like he belonged rather than being dragged into existence. He was pitch, like the trees around them, melting and drooping to the snow underneath before his body clawed the clumps back like wet sand. “Not necessarily. There is a way to do it permanently. At least, I believe so.”

  Papyrus stood aghast, hands clamped to the back of his head as he processed the sentence, mumbling ‘no’ as he rocked on his feet, a plan coming together that he wanted no part in. He was biting on his scarf, chewing, letting the motions ground him as the fabric pressed into his teeth, suppressing what he knew to be rising anger, he would not just experience terror, he would be terror.

  “And with it,” he continued, voice tense with admittance, “break the barrier. If they are surprised then you can claim their soul before they realize what has happened, then use it up. When I said you would make a fine soldier, I wasn’t posturing for your sake. I was being truthful. You would make a good soldier, one of the best, because you I think you can handle consuming a human soul until it’s ready to be spat out with no ill effects.” There was a pause as he clasped at his chin in thought, like he was planning a meal. “Well, few ill effects,” he chuckled in a fit of black humor, “I’m not blind. You have a knack for magic, but I think your frame is better suited for the task. You are less likely to snap in half like a wishbone, as Sans would.”

  Papyrus was slack, long limbs swaying as he stood, incredulous peals of laughter leaving him. “AH, YES, EXCELLENT! I WAS THINKING MY LIFE WAS GOING TOO WELL. THANK GOD YOU’RE HERE TO FIX THAT LITTLE ISSUE, ‘HEY PAPYRUS, MURDER A CHILD, PEOPLE WILL LOVE THAT’! WELL I WON’T, SO NEVER BRING THIS UP AGAIN.”

  “You will.”

  “I REFUSE.”

  “That wasn’t an order.”

  Gaster swayed, looking Papyrus up and down like he were appraising meat at a butcher’s, globs of inky flesh flecking and dissipating. “Papyrus,” he cooed, sweet and calming, “what is one life weighed against thousands?”

  “TOO MUCH,” he snapped back, fingers squeaking from the pressure he was putting on them, the grind of bone-on-bone. “AND BESIDES,” he said, grasping for reasons, “I THOUGHT YOU NEVER WANTED TO SEE THE SURFACE AGAIN. WHY WOULD YOU POSSIBLY TELL ME THIS?”

  “Because I know _you_ do. I know that is what you want more than anything, because it isn’t just pretty blue skies and days at the beach to you, is it? Not really. It’s being able to go where you want. It’s meeting new friends. It’s settling down with a wife or a husband and raising some children. Not skeletal, of course, though you have always considered adopting, haven’t you? A boy and a girl who otherwise would be hungry, sad and alone. Much like you were, correct? Even when you do something altruistic it’s caked in narcissism. I’m helping _you_.”

  Good done for its own sake was a wonderful thing. This was not.

  Papyrus cracked, ivory bones twisting and thrashing as he screeched. “YOU JUST WANT SOMETHING TO HANG OVER MY HEAD. I _HATE_ YOU. GOD, I _HATE_ YOU, I HATE YOU, YOU ARE AN ABOMINATION, A CANCER, YOU ARE A _LEECH_ , I DESPISE YOU, I LOATHE YOU--”

  “I love you.”

  “--I _HATE_ , HATE YOU, I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU! THERE IS GOOD IN YOU, BUT IT IS ONLY WHAT YOU HAVE TAKEN FROM _ME!_ ”

  The silence between them was as dense as tar, marring the untouched forest around them, the cacophony shaking the snow from the trees until it dusted the air around them, delicate and fragile, unlike the thick clumps that would fall from the top of the mountain and wallop any bystanders. Papyrus was weeping, a constant stream of tears that tumbled off of his skull, leaking out of his sockets, snot pasted to his face, saliva stuck to the corners of his mouth. In any other situation he would have been mortified. In any other situation he wouldn’t have cried like this. He felt the same way he did when he was ten, small, frail, with only his scarf to ground him. A victim.

  “I’LL STOP SHOUTING. I’LL STOP SHOUTING IF IT MEANS I DON’T NEED TO DO THIS. I’LL TALK NORMALLY, PEOPLE ALWAYS SAID I WAS TOO LOUD, I-I’LL--” He whined, a little bubble of noise as he tried to piece together a solution, tried to fix this. “I’ll talk like this, forever, if it means I don’t have to go through with it,” he croaked.

  Gaster shook his head, fine dusts of snow absorbing into his body. “No. You know what needs to be done to fix this.”

  Immediately, Papyrus felt his volume rocket back up to normal levels. “I’LL MAKE SPAGHETTI WHENEVER YOU WANT, OR I’LL NEVER MAKE IT AGAIN. IT’S UP TO YOU. I’LL EAT LIKE A KING OR JUST ENOUGH TO KEEP ME MOVING. PLEASE.”

  Gaster rolled his eyes at the feeble creature in front of him.

  “...I’LL SLEEP WITH YOU. I-IF YOU LET ME GO I’LL DO WHATEVER YOU WANT, ANYTHING.” Papyrus was groping at Gaster’s shoulders, heaving and weeping .“ANYTHING, IF YOU’LL LET ME GO. I’LL DO IT, IF THAT’S WHAT IT WILL TAKE. IF THAT’S WHAT YOU WANT.”

  Gaster’s face contorted in pity, wrenched in disgust, cringing at the contact, at his desperation. “No. Stop this.”

  “OH, DON’T YOU DARE PITY ME!” Papyrus roared, noise echoing through the forest, hunched like an animal.

  “How could I not? Look at you.”

  Papyrus was still clinging on, shaking, gripping and gripping and _tearing,_ and he did. He did look in himself. He peered, and searched, and probed, and from Gaster's manner he knew. It was an expression, calculated to get a rise, but one that had worked better than he could have ever hoped. He looked.

  And he found _something_.

  Gaster rolled his eyes, complex feelings that he didn’t want to parse through sitting in his stomach, in his chest, unsure what was himself, parts of Sans he had tried to abandon, or Papyrus. “Do not blame me because you cannot cope. Sans is the pinnacle of mental health compared to you and he had already thrown himself into the river three times at this point. He did backflips. Given his level of athleticism, it was impressive.”

  Papyrus was hunched, looking like he was one gust away from collapsing, limp, livid and very, very quiet. “THERE IS GOOD IN EVERYONE. I BELIEVE THAT. EVEN AFTER ALL OF THIS, I STILL BELIEVE THAT. BUT THAT SHOULD NOT COME AT THE EXPENSE OF OTHERS, NEVER OTHERS.” His voice was low, bubbling, husky.

  “Why? If you benefit, why would the cost matter?” Gaster questioned, his tone genuine.

  Papyrus was calm, collected, his rage compressed to a single fixed point far scarier than threats, far more dangerous than outbursts, far more cunning, much in the way a knife slips into the gut, sudden and calculated. There was no fanfare. There was no righteous closure. There was simply madness that transcended all instinct to occupy every thought, every cell. “THE WORLD WOULD BE A FAR BETTER PLACE IF YOU WERE NOT IN IT,” he spat. “AND I SAY THAT NOT AS A BITTER THREAT, NOT TO SLIGHT YOU, NOT AS AN ACT OF SPITE WHICH I BELIEVE I AM OWED. IT IS A FACT. YOU PROD, YOU PUSH, YOU VIOLATE, THEN YOU STAND BACK AS EVERYTHING COLLAPSES LIKE YOU ARE WATCHING CHILDREN IDLY SQUABBLE. I BELIEVE THAT WHEN THE AVERAGE HUMAN ON THE SURFACE THINKS OF MONSTERS, THEY DO NOT THINK OF SANS AND HIS GOOD HUMOR, THEY DO NOT THINK OF UNDYNE AND HER LUST FOR LIFE, THEY DO NOT THINK OF ASGORE AND HIS KINDNESS, THEY DO NOT THINK OF THE THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE LIVING DAY-TO-DAY AS THEY DO. THEY THINK OF YOU. THEY THINK OF YOU AND CALL FOR OUR DEATH AND FOR THAT I CANNOT BLAME THEM. YOU HAVE TRAINED TROOPS THEN WATCHED AS THEY DIED, BURGEONING WITH SOULS FOR YOUR OWN AMUSEMENT, UNFEELING. YOU LET ME BELIEVE, FOR A MOMENT, THAT YOU WERE WARMING TO ME AS A PERSON, NOT AS A TOY TO USE, TO PLAY WITH AND BREAK. WHATEVER HAPPENS, WHATEVER I DO, IF THE MOUNTAIN ITSELF COLLAPSES ON ME AND CRUSHES ME UNTIL I CHOKE AND DIE, IT WILL BE WITH THE KNOWLEDGE THAT AT LEAST I WAS NEVER YOU. I DON’T KNOW IF I WILL BREAK THE BARRIER, I DON’T--” He stepped forward, towering, voice wavering imperceptibly . “I DON’T THINK I CAN. BUT YOU SEEM TO BE CAUGHT UP IN YOUR OWN HUBRIS. YOU SEEM TO THINK THAT YOUR PRESENCE ALLOWS YOU TO CONTROL ME LIKE A PUPPET.”

  “It does,” Gaster gloated. “Every whim I’ve had, you have played into. Every little quirk, every little flight of fancy. And if you talk back to me again I’ll bring Sans back. He will know. He will suffer.”

  Papyrus laughed, loud and sudden like the crack of a whip against bark. “DO YOU REALLY WANT SANS TO KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE? DO YOU REALLY WANT TO RISK SANS FINDING OUT, HAVING HIM CONFRONT YOU? I KNOW YOU CONSIDER THIS A GAME, SO THE REAL QUESTION IS, _DO YOU WANT TO GO AGAINST BOTH OF US AT THE SAME TIME?_ DO YOU NOT THINK THAT, _TOGETHER_ , WE WOULD FIGURE SOMETHING OUT? YOU,” he enunciated, every syllable sitting and ringing in his jaw, “WERE MY GUEST. BUT NOW YOU ARE MY _HOSTAGE_.” He was stood in his shirt, his pajama pants, to attention, and commanded far greater presence than his armor had ever allowed him.

  It was Gaster’s turn to be quiet this time, looking from under his brow, his jibe having backfired spectacularly.

  “I WILL NEVER BEG AGAIN. I WILL NEVER PLEAD TO YOUR SENSE OF MERCY AGAIN. I WILL NEVER OFFER YOU ANY PART OF MYSELF, OF MY SOUL, EVER AGAIN. WHATEVER I DO WILL BE IN THE KNOWLEDGE THAT I HAVE TRIED MY VERY BEST, AND THAT IS ALL ANYBODY COULD ASK FOR.” Papyrus was looming over Gaster now, like a cliff, eroded but very much present. “I ALWAYS TOLD MYSELF I WOULD NEVER KILL BUT I BELIEVE THIS IS AN ADEQUATE EXCEPTION. I WOULD NEVER KILL ANYONE _BAR YOU_.”

  Papyrus leaned forward, craning upwards and over until his forehead almost collided with Gaster’s, eyes wild and voice measured, spittle at the corners of his mouth, unblinking, always unblinking.

  “ _GET OUT OF MY SIGHT_.”

  Gaster looked him up and down, inches away from his maw, so close that he could see sharp teeth slick with saliva, and conceded. He would get nothing out of this, not this time, he had pushed and pulled and bent until something finally snapped. He would need to wait.

  The reset tore through the forest, Papyrus unmoving, not averting his gaze for even a moment. He did not cry. He did not waver. He did not flinch. All he did was let out the heaving, shaky breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

  Gaster, however, did flinch.

  Papyrus was going to buy every cinnamon bunny in the shop.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter where I cash in on that prostitution imagery, Gaster is an asshole, and Papyrus figures out he has HAD ENOUGH OF THIS BULLSHIT. The cinnamon roll is FUCKING PISSED.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, 30,000 hits O_O. In celebration, I’ll be writing a oneshot of YOUR choosing! Anything you want expanded upon? Any worldbuilding? Do you just want Sans and Pap to hang out and do cute stuff WITHOUT the constant crushing weight of existential horror? Drop an idea and I’ll write the one that gets the most traction/most comments backing it! Thank you all for your support, I appreciate it so, so much!


	35. Breakfast

  Papyrus came to out in the forest as he always did, in motion, wearing the same armor, polished and shiny against the dull blue-grey of the snow around him darkened by the night. He did not run, this time, though he could have. He did not sprint either, nor did he jog. He let out a long, relieved laugh, hands on his knees, great big bursts of noise, each bout leaving him feeling lighter and lighter. He had made a very powerful enemy. He was glad he had. Papyrus would bend, would falter, but he would not buckle. He would not break. Not now.

  Papyrus had two regrets. He been very harsh in his tone, blunt in his language, but he wished that he had been blunter. He wanted to have conjured the long, rolling lines of expletives and colorful metaphors Sans might use, really go for it, gross, vivid hand gestures and descriptions that bordered on the grotesque to really ram the point home. The ones that would make him wince and cringe, the ones he would hear faintly through walls, preceded by a crash of dishes or the crack of a foot against the couch.

  Gaster was not a lost soul that needed saving. He was not a poor, tormented man that only needed a hug. There was a part of Papyrus in there, a part of Sans, but rather than him latching onto the love they felt for each other, it had warped and twisted in Gaster like rotten wood until it no longer fit. It was different. It was an abomination. It was not love, no matter how much he would insist otherwise, no matter how much he genuinely thought it was. It was a bastardization, cobbled together pieces of an article he would never understand.

  Gaster was a prick, Papyrus realized, and it was a very freeing thought. He was a petty coward that craved attention. He would not get it. Papyrus would continue through his day as if it were completely normal, like he had never known about the resets. He would go home, shower, make something to eat, then wake up Sans. Eggs seemed nice. Scrambled? No, poached.

  He walked home calmly, making a point to enjoy the scenery around him, every menial detail, every part that did not matter, as if he were walking through a forest for the very first time. The clumps of snow on the trees, the lovely shimmer they exuded, the puffs of hot breath that left him and clouded the air, the pleasant crunching of twigs under his feet. This was nice. It was peaceful. It was his home. And he loved it.

  “Oh, you will _not_ ignore me.”

   Papyrus did not say anything, merely continued walking, meandering delightfully in a direction that just happened to be home. He paused at the end of the 'bridge', the rock he had painted painstakingly. He was stood at the edge, gazing over the pitch precipice, letting the feeling of being infinitely small wash over him. It was a test.

  Gaster was, above all, selfish. But he was spiteful. If Papyrus was pushed off the cliff and cracked like a walnut against the jagged rocks below then it was a sign that Gaster was still very much in control, but it would involve a great deal of pain on his part. If he was allowed to simply enjoy the view and continue his walk home, then that was that.

  Papyrus took a deep breath that expanded his ribs until it felt like he was going to burst, then held it.

  He waited for the rush of air, the blind, all-encompassing panic before the serenity of death, and the brief lull of non-existence he had come to expect.

  There was none.

  He exhaled slowly, aware that Gaster was shouting about something or other, and resumed his walk, taking care not to trip because he certainly didn’t want the moment ruined by a bout of clumsiness. Papyrus reminded himself to finally get around to picking up that book from the library, he had been meaning to do that for months but had simply lacked the initiative. He had never actually sat down to read about King Arthur and his exploits, but he remembered the versions he had heard as a child fondly. Gaster was walking alongside, trying to cut off each step, Papyrus deftly moving left and right to compensate before he could do so. “One little speech and that’s that, hmm? What happened to forgiveness? If I say I am sorry, are you not obliged to forgive me? To clutch me to your skeletal bosom? Though I would not want to, not literally, hugging you is like hugging a cheese grater. Well, I am sorry. Now you can stop this.”

  Papyrus continued walking forward, picking up the pace to thud into Gaster’s shoulder, the gesture not actually hurting. But it made its point.

  “Oh you must be trousling my bones, turn around immediately! I demand it!”

  Did they even have eggs at home? Were they even fresh? Nothing worse than an old egg, the yolk never quite sets-

  “Do not think about breakfast when I am talking to you, you cretin!”

  Ooh, eggs and toast seemed lovely. That was a plan. Sans didn’t like eggs all that much, but he would eat them because he couldn’t be bothered to make his own breakfast.

  “This is _unbelievable!”_

  Papyrus pressed on, the thought of a normal day leaving him in a pleasant fuzz.

 

* * *

 

  The second Papyrus’ foot hit the inside of the house he made his way to the shower underneath the stairs, just a small room with barely enough space to stand up in, cozy and private. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, there was more than enough room for the average person, Sans didn’t have issues but he was also only five-foot-three. Papyrus, most markedly, was not.

  He strode in, shut the door, and left Gaster outside, thought the soft click of the lock was entirely superfluous. Gaster was going to phase through the wall to shout at Papyrus for being so insolent. People were more inclined to listen to you if they were naked, but he didn’t need his degree to know that. As he moved through, as his vision clouded then refocused, he was greeted with a solid grip around his skull. He was forcibly crammed back through the wall with measured strength, the way you would a dog that was sniffing at chocolate.

  Gaster stood there, at the edge of the living room, feeling mimicked steam on his own body, hearing the clack of armor against tile, aghast.

  “Oh, _this is absolute horseshit._ You can’t take advantage of my powers like this. You can’t just gallivant across the timelines and then proceed to ignore me.”

  Once again, he phased through the wood like ink through water, dissipating then reconstituting, and once again felt a damp hand grab him and push him back dismissively with no fanfare.

  Could he...

  Could he tell? Just as Gaster could tell what he was doing?

  Impossible. This wasn’t an exchange. Gaster took what he wanted and that was that. Even if the thing he wanted to talk to wasn’t paying attention to him. Scoffing, he dissipated completely, vanishing before reconstituting mere feet away.

  He had overshot the mark.

  He was _in_ the shower.

  Gaster was opposite a sodden, naked and _furious_ Papyrus, to which Gaster cowed reflexively, though he cursed himself for doing so. Papyrus couldn’t actually do anything, so why had he done that, why had he acted in fear? With no effort to cover himself, Papyrus picked Gaster up by the skull and tossed him, passed the curtain and through the door. Papyrus then slammed it shut, resuming as if nothing had happened.

  “You cannot throw me out like I am garbage! Answer me immediately!”

  Papyrus was whistling a catchy ditty he had heard on the television a while ago, a jingle of some sort, tuneless as always, reverberating off of the shower and the wood of the room.

  This was humiliating. Gaster would have let loose a flurry of threats had the shower not felt quite so nice.

 

* * *

 

  Ten minutes later and Papyrus was out, jogging up the stairs to his room, discarded armor under his long arm, other hand holding up a towel. It didn’t feel like a ‘battle-body’ kind of day. He couldn’t pinpoint why exactly, it just didn’t. He was extremely aware of Gaster’s gaze on him, but crushed his own embarrassment, reminding himself that this was his home, and he was going to shower and change like every other person in the world would.

  “You were a burden. That’s what Sans thought, giving up his own childhood for your sake. You could go outside to play with your friends, he could never do that. Well, ‘Friends’, we both know they would all keep you around to tease you, mock you. The only reason they stopped is because you scared them, just as you scared Sans. Because you grew first, because your voice deepened first, because you were the tallest by far, the strongest, the loudest. You were spared because of factors outside of your control. Now tell me, how does that make you feel?”

  Gaster paused to register the rush of emotion, of acknowledgement, but was left empty as there was none. Strange, that had seemed cutting. He would need to up the ante. He would not be ignored.

  “Sans was working those jobs, cobbling together awful meals so you wouldn’t die, though you would have deserved it for your insolence. Do you remember the ketchup sandwiches, that little sign that payday needed to happen and it needed to happen now? You would scream and cry and he wouldn’t know what to do because what child would? And that is all you do. That is all you will ever do. I can make you great.”

  Ah, all Papyrus had to hand were some jeans and a few shirts he had made, some chunky sweaters at the back, the rest either hung out to dry or in the wash. He needed to take up sewing again, you can wear anything if you know how to tailor it, even if you are a skeleton. With no consideration, with resolute defiance, he dropped his towel, closet door open and began to dress. Oh, there was that figurine again, on his bedside table. Hello small, posing robot. What long legs you have.

  Gaster was being denied. He was beyond life, beyond death, beyond this lanky idiot and he was being ignored. He was going to get a reaction.

  “I know you hear me. I know you do. You are making a show of this, ignoring me, stripping to change as if I am not here. This is a power play and I can assure you, I have participated in more power plays than you have had hot meals. Though that would not be difficult, considering you starved. Which is hilarious to me, a skeleton starving.”

  On the jeans went, too large for him, and he set about finding a belt he had adjusted to accommodate for his lack of flesh.

  “I can torture you. I can, and I will. I can ruin you, I can bend you, I can break you. If you apologize to me then I won’t. Apologize to me for being selfish and we can move on with our lives.”

  There it was, tucked at the back, hidden behind a pile of board games. His closet was a mess, it really was, and he tutted at himself for allowing it to get to this state.

  “Do not think I have forgotten your offers. Do not think I have forgotten your pleading. Do not think I have forgotten the fact you offered sex in exchange for relief. And here I thought you were going to save that for your first real relationship, candles and flowers and saccharine romance, all planned and clean. Those nights you would spend reading those awful novels have really gotten to you haven’t they? Of course, that fell away. Much like your dignity. I will know. I will remember. You will know. You will remember.”

  As far as shirts went, he wasn’t too fussed. Being on the cutting edge of fashion was fun and all, and he did enjoy it, but sometimes throwing on whatever you find is quite liberating. With that in mind he tossed on the first shirt he laid eyes on, wrinkled and green, one of the few that fit his shoulders.

  “I know you would have done it.”

  On his scarf went. It was time to wake up Sans.

  “Do not ignore me. I can feel you grinding your teeth.”

  Papyrus did, as best he could, but he couldn’t disguise the speed in which he stood up, the way he walked to the door.

  Gaster blocked the exit with his body, lean and fluid. “Listen to me. Listen to me, talk to me, you are all I have. You have no understanding of what this is like. What my life was like. Please, please say something. I love you. You were right, you did get through to me. _I love you_.” In response, Gaster heard one of the few phrases that would be directed at him all morning, Papyrus’ willpower finally buckling under the weight of irritation.

“ **MOVE.** ”

  “I refuse.”

  Without any further words, Papyrus grasped Gaster underneath the protuberances that sat on his shoulders, too thin to be called arms, and hoisted him up to eye level. With the same stuck, disdainful expression, he carried him away from the door and dropped him to the ground like he was dropping a sack of flour, heavily and with no care. Gaster was dumbstruck, pausing to process what just happened.

  “ _Excuse_ me?!”

  “YOU ARE EXCUSED.”

  With that, he strode to Sans’ door and prepared himself. He would not lie, not exactly, not really. Half-truths seemed the way to go, like normal lies, but sweeter. One long, deep breath in, then out. He would need to ham this up a little, if he wanted to get away with it. He rapped at the door with his knuckles.

  He heard groaning from the other side, muffled by a pillow.

  “SANS! GET UP, YOU NEED TO GO TO WORK.”

  “oh my god dude, i think i’m dyin’.”

  “YOU AREN’T DYING, YOU’RE TIRED. GET UP.”

  “nah man, five more minutes.”

  Papyrus held his chin in thought, overjoyed at having heard Sans respond normally, not edged with fear, sick with worry. “... I’M MAKING BREAKFAST!”

  Complete, dull silence from the other side, punctured weakly by Sans’ sleepy voice. “i’m coming down.”

 

* * *

 

  “geeze, what’s happened to you?”

  Papyrus went to cut him off, to tell him that he was startled in the forest (which was _technically_ true) but couldn’t get the words out. Instead, Sans continued, slouching on the kitchen table, blearily rubbing his palms to his eyes.

  “you look like you’re on the warpath. look like you’re gonna kick your way out of the mountain.”

  Papyrus laughed, light and easy, and Gaster piped up in an attempt to be noticed, aware that only Papyrus could hear him, that his presence in reality was entirely vicarious, his cool completely gone. “Stop this _immediately!_ ”

  Papyrus was beginning to take delight in this. Not so much as to be sadistic, he still considered himself a very sweet skeleton, but it was within the realm of comeuppance. “SANS. PLEASE. DO YOU THINK I WOULD RISK MY FABULOUS GAMS KICKING ROCK? I THINK NOT.”

  “are they really gams if they don’t have meat on ‘em?”

  “ANYTHING CAN BE GAMS IF YOU BELIEVE ENOUGH.”

  There was a pleasant silence between them, at least on Sans’ end. All Papyrus could hear was shrill screaming, Gaster furiously signing along with his words as all coherent thought fell aside.

  “hey pap.”

  Papyrus turned away from the stove, frilly apron squeaking as he did so. “YES?”

  Sans was leaning in his chair, his feet not touching the ground. “you ever have a moment where you kind of... zone out in the middle of the conversation? and realize what you’re actually saying? i mean, ‘gams’, what the hell are we even talking about?”

  Gaster interjected in vain, “nothing you absolute waste of talent, _if I hadn't died I would have fired you!_ ”

  “OH MY GOD I GET THOSE ALL THE TIME. AND BY ALL THE TIME I MEAN NEVER, BECAUSE ALL OF MY THOUGHTS AND CONVERSATIONS ARE COOL AND WORTHWHILE.”

  Gaster was ranting uselessly, Papyrus forced to look as he was feet away from the table, next to Sans. “No they aren’t you idiot, nothing you have ever done is worthwhile!”

  “heh, that’s a pretty good outlook to have.”

  “You have a PhD, _stop talking about gams!_ ”

  Papyrus sat down, plonking the plates on the table as he did so, deftly removing his apron afterwards. God, this looked good. The yolks had burst and he had added too much vinegar to the water, but still. He had missed breakfast. Gingerly, he brought them to his mouth and bit. They tasted like nectar.

  Gaster was flapping. “All of this effort to ignore me and you haven’t even cooked the eggs properly. Everything you touch turns to failure. Badly cooked failure.”

  Papyrus was going to laugh. He couldn’t. There wasn’t a good way to explain laughing at your eggs in the kitchen, it just wasn’t done. A bubble of noise escaped, like a choke, but he quelled it immediately.

  Sans quirked an eyebrow, leaning forward as he crammed toast into his mouth. “the hell was that?”

  “OH, IT’S FINE. I WAS JUST CHOKING TO DEATH AND WAS DESPERATELY SIGNALING FOR HELP,” he joked.

  “oh cool, i was worried,” Sans responded in kind.

  “I WON’T CHOKE, DON’T PANIC. I WON’T TODAY AND I WON’T TO-MARROW.”

  Sans made a finger gun with one hand, chomping at the egg like it was the last meal he would ever have. All this time and his table manners were still awful. God, how Papyrus loved him. “eyyy. way to make me proud.”

  “THANK YOU.”

  Gaster was shrieking, shouting impotently at somebody that didn’t hear him and somebody that didn’t care. “I will tear apart the universe to travel back in time, back to the moment of your conception, and _I will punch your father in the balls for daring to spawn something that would inflict those sentences on me!_ ”

  Papyrus was going to lose it. He could feel his shoulders shaking, hidden only by his self control and the fact that Sans wasn’t quite ‘there’ yet, still in that post-sleep daze. He couldn’t laugh, he just couldn't, no matter how much he wanted to. Even if Gaster throwing a cosmic tantrum was very, very satisfying.

  He felt more like ‘himself’, though it had been so long he wasn’t too sure what ‘he’ was. But it was pleasant. It was freer. It was sweet. It was arrogant.

  A key facet he had forgotten was that there was still a human soul in play, for grabs.

  Gaster did not forget.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus strips naked and reaches a level of passive-aggression previously unknown to man whilst Gaster loses his shit.
> 
> Anyway, about the oneshot. I went through the comments and tallied up some votes: 
> 
> Backflip Quest 3,000: Skeleton Suicide Edition; Sans figures out the extent of his predicament and attempts to end it all. Three times; 2 votes
> 
> Honey, I Swapped the Cinnamon Roll With A Dead Scientist Who is Just Going to Fuck Everything Up for Everyone; Gaster swaps places with Papyrus, who, too broken to fight back, languishes in the void for his mistakes; 4 votes
> 
> Buckle Up Folks, This One Is Too Harrowing For A Funny Title; Sans can’t take living at home any more and can’t face the prospect of his baby brother growing up under the same circumstances. Armed with only his wits, a change of clothes and a loaf of bread, he needs to figure something out; 5 votes
> 
> Sans and Papyrus Hang Out And Have A Chill Day Where Nobody Has Self Esteem Issues And Everything Is Fine; The bone brothers have a fun day doing nothing; 7 votes
> 
> Table Tennis, Catastrophic Time-Space Fuckery Edition; Sans, Papyrus and Gaster play table tennis because why the hell not; 1 vote
> 
> Fluff wins. That’s not to say I won’t do these oneshots, just not at this specific moment in time. I’ll write it up, and link it in a future chapters notes. Thanks for reading, thank you for your support, and I hope you like the picture!


	36. Book

  Papyrus was walking up to Sans’ post alone, having easily convinced him to get to work on the puzzles, just as he did last time. The daylight dappled the snow around him, lighting him from underneath, the plastic bag Papyrus held rustling gently with each sway, with each movement of his legs. The trees were lush with green, pines obscuring the deciduous foliage, the forest alive with color. It was peaceful. It was still. At least, it seemed so. If you peeled back the layers, chipped at the bark, you would be treated to an endless wall of noise.

  “-- and the only reason I didn’t fuck you was because, compared to this, taking advantage of you sexually is pedestrian! It would have been a _downgrade!_ _Listen to me!_ ”

  Papyrus took in a long, long breath, dangerously close to losing his cool, and pushed it back out, squeezing his anger until it choked and died. He pressed on, boots crunching against the ice, taking care to listen to each crack, each crumble, to drown out the cacophony that had set itself on following him. The smell of cinnamon settled in his nasal cavity, and he did his best to enjoy it, though he had never enjoyed the taste of cinnamon all that much. At least, not since Sans had convinced him that eating it raw would be a good idea. Sans had apologized for taking the joke too far, but the memory stuck like damp powder. Tucked in the bag besides the rolls (four, despite his promise to buy every one in the shop, as he didn’t want to haul forty-eight up to the post) was a copy of Le Morte d’Arthur. He didn’t actually know what that meant, only being vaguely aware of the fact that there were other languages out there, but he had peeped at a few chapters in the library and found that, yes, he could understand it, muddle through, as long as he didn’t need to pronounce it. Well, somewhat. There were still some parts he couldn’t parse. Who writes ‘child’ as ‘chylde’? He tutted at the carelessness. For a published work, it seemed reasonable to assume someone would check it for errors. He would not be able to read the full thing in the time it would take for Frisk to arrive, that much was certain, not if he actually wanted to absorb the information, it was far, far too dense--

  “ _You_ are too dense!”

  He arrived at the rickety post, with its rusted nails and duct-taped frames, and sat in the little chair Sans would lounge in, opposite that conveniently shaped lamp. His knees sat high against his body, gangly, jeans pulling uncomfortably against his legs. He remembered why he wore shorts all the time. With one swoop, he pulled out the book.

  “Are you actually going to read?! The universe has been torn asunder, you are at the whim of a murderous child, and you’re going to read? You can’t even speak the language, you won’t be able to understand!”

  Papyrus finally snapped. “IT WAS THE ONLY COPY. I CAN TRY. NO MORE PROCRASTINATION.” Immediately, he opened the book and skipped to the first chapter. He would need to sound out the consonants if he was going to have even the faintest glimmer of understanding this. “HIT BEFEL IN THE DAYS--DAYES OF VTHER--” He let the word die in his throat as he set about processing the sentence. “’VTHER’?” Papyrus asked aloud, somewhat directing the question at Gaster, somewhat at himself. Even if Gaster was an irritant, it was pragmatic to consult someone with a greater understanding. He let the syllable buzz on his palate, confused, saying the name incorrectly, a ‘v’ instead of a ‘u’. “WHO’S THAT?”

  Gaster was in front of the post, palms gripping the wood of the desk, his plaything dismissing him. “It’s written in Middle English! I should know, I have heard people speak it!” He remembered hearing it as a child, very young, when he was weak, when he was cast out, before he began to roam. The tribes were spread out, then, always warring with each other, slowly but surely whittling down their own numbers before the humans decided to accelerate the process.

  Papyrus dipped back in his chair, adjusting his posture, still mulling over the sentence before having a burst of clarity. “OHH, ‘UTHER’ IS ‘VTHER’, I GET IT, NEVERMIND. THIS ISN’T THE VERSION SANS USED TO TELL ME. I DON’T THINK I’M PRONOUNCING ANY OF THIS CORRECTLY--”

  “You aren’t.”

  God almighty, being only slightly involved in the conversation was worse than being totally ignored.

  In a show of frustration, Gaster leaned forward, his body melding and stretching unnaturally, not needing to account for a skeletal structure, and whipped the book from his hands. A petty act of spite. Papyrus scowled, preparing a retort, but didn’t bother, choosing instead to recline in his chair and take in a deep breath. He wouldn’t be angry anymore. He couldn’t. He refused it, refused the relief is would offer, the immediate gratification. He already had a headache and he didn’t want to add to it.

  Gaster laughed, like he had brought down an army single-handedly, whilst Papyrus leaned in his chair, pouting. Now he had to be acknowledged, not half-noticed, not as an errant target for rhetorical questions, but as a person that demanded respect.

  Papyrus made a point of huffing, then looking up at the nearest tree like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Look at those leaves. They’re certainly doing their job, hanging out and being green. You go, leaves. Never give up--

  “Oh you must be stirring my pasta, this is absurd! _Look at me!_ ” Gaster was roaring.

   With his free hand, Gaster grabbed Papyrus by the jaw and forced him to look into his hollow eyes, into his cracked face, warm bones against freezing digits. Papyrus did, resolute, glowering, and brought his hand to his own thigh.

  “What are you--”

  Papyrus nipped it, pinching at the sensitive bone underneath, still staring.

  Gaster yelped and drew back reflexively, before sweeping back to resume his position, to grab again at Papyrus’ face, to force attention, heeded as he deserved.

  Papyrus nipped again, and Gaster hated the spats of pain that affected him so deeply in their newness, that would stop him in his tracks.

  “NO TOUCHING,” he said with all of the dismissive authority of warden, stock still and stinging.

  Gaster scoffed before trying once again, frenzied this time.

  “I WOULD RATHER TAKE A CLAW HAMMER TO MY PUBIS THAN HAVE YOU TOUCH ME AGAIN.”

  That did the trick.

  Papyrus resumed his position in his chair, pursed expression, looking everywhere but forward, head pounding.

  That’s it. That was it. If aggression wouldn’t work then passive aggression would do the trick. Two can play at this game, skeleton.

  Gaster picked a random point in the book, one of the first few pages, then began reading to himself, hemming and hawing as if it was the most interesting thing he had ever laid eyes upon, even though he didn’t care for non-fiction, he hummed in feigned rapture, delighting in the agitated grumbles he heard in response, Papyrus’ patience finally collapsing under the strain. Gaster focused on a paragraph, simply as an effort in irritation, and heard a low, pained groan in return. Hah, excellent. Papyrus was opposite, suffering. That would teach him. He cleared his mind and began, the words ebbing and flowing naturally in his thoughts, an old, old tongue he hadn’t seen or heard in years . ‘Thenne they aus--”

  Papyrus was lolling in his chair, face twisted in confusion, limbs slack and hanging as he processed input that was not his own.

  “’--THENNE THEY AUYSED THE KYNGE TO SEND FOR THE DUKE AND HIS WYF BY A GRETE CHARGE, AND YF HE WILLE NOT COME AT YOUR SOMŌS’...” Papyrus scrunched his eyes shut, like he was looking into a very bright light, and it hurt with that same intensity. He had clamped his hands to his face, covering his sockets, arm pulsing. Like the flickers of light you see when you stare at the sun, he could see words, he could see them though he was very aware that was impossible. Papyrus was not reading the page, not truly, not in the conventional sense. The lulls and dips in his speech came too easily, too fluidly, too readily, tapping into knowledge and memories that were not his own. “’THENNE MAY YE DO YOUR BEST, THENNE HAUE YE CAUSE TO MAKE MYGHTY WERRE VPON HYM--’”

  Gaster dropped the book like it was hot iron pressed bare against flesh.

  Papyrus was peering into his psyche, examining, just as he could.

  They both stared, one as shocked as the other.

  Gaster was _horrified_. He knew the answer to the question he was going to ask, of course he did, but the sudden weight of what had happened, the burgeoning pressure of his confirmed suspicion forced it out of him. “Papyrus,” he said quietly, solemnly, like he was heralding a wake, “you pronounced it. Not flawlessly, but you did. And I know for a fact that _you could not have possibly known how to_. You don’t know it off by heart. Now tell me, how did you do that?”

  Papyrus was stuttering, unable to form a coherent answer, babbling gasps of noise as the words slipped out of his mind as quickly as they came. He lost the paragraph, the sentence, the meaning, as his own bare awareness had been torn from him, back in its rightful place. He scrambled upwards, hands skittering over the wood of the desk until he found purchase, then vaulted over it to grab at the soaked book, hands drenched in snow as he found his way back to the page, knees soaked as he kneeled on the ground, on the wet earth, like an animal. He found the page and tried to read aloud again, to prove that he still could, his pronunciation faltering as he made halting, juddering attempts. “... TH-THEN, _THENNE_ THEY ASKED-- _AUSYED_ THE KING-- _KYGNE_ TO, TO...” His mind was skipping over words, unfamiliar yet so near, so tantalizingly, unbearably close to fluidity.

  “To send for the duke and his wyf by a grete charge,” Gaster rasped quietly, voice low, lilting and intoning correctly.

  “YES. THAT.”

  They both gawked at each other, in genuine acknowledgement, united by their terror. No passive aggression. Simply the unknown. As equals.

  “I DON’T LIKE THIS,” Papyrus whispered, damp and afraid, no longer caring about the book.

  ‘Neither do I’, Gaster thought, though he did not say it aloud. For the first time in his life there was no lofty understanding, there was no slaving over books and obsessing over the techniques of others. There was emptiness, there was entropy and there was fear.

  "If you know what is best,” Gaster spat, his dignity well and truly destroyed, “you will forget about this.”

  Papyrus loured, a thin sliver of spite in his large, warm heart, like an ice chip. A razor-thin point that would gouge and poke at Gaster, of his own making, of his own downfall, that would pierce his side and gut him.

  He did not like thinking about that.

  He did not want to dwell.

  Vague half-thoughts bombarded Papyrus, none that were his own, inclinations and inklings that he knew for a fact could not be his. They manifested not as ideas, but as niggles, hunches, brief flashes of places he had never been and people he had never spoken to. Not as strong, not with the same clarity that came with Gaster’s snooping, but he could peer through the murky waters to see flits of color, like fish, sudden then gone.

  “... Y-YOU WERE...” Papyrus grasped his skull, feeling like it was splitting in two, each half pulled by rope, “... BANISHED? WHEN YOU WERE ALIVE? A-AS A CHILD ON THE SURFACE? Y-YOU--”

  Gaster would not allow another person to wrangle control, not after what he had done, what he was prepared to do to be magic, to feel. He refused Papyrus the level playing field he was wrenching back and cursed his own hubris. This had always been a possibility, and he knew that, but if Papyrus was kept meek and compliant it would have never come to pass. Cross-contamination. An exchange rather than the violation it should have been. Things were spiraling away from him. This could not be allowed to continue.

  “Stop.”

  And all at once it did, the brief glimpses torn from Papyrus as he knelt there, wheezing, unable to piece together what he had seen, only the tattered remnants of emotions to comfort him.

  There was hate, of course.

  And there was pity.

  “You shouldn’t have seen any of that,” Gaster said, quietly. "You shouldn't be able to see my mind as I do yours."

  “BUT I DID,” Papyrus responded, quieter still, voice drenched with empathy. "NOT EVERYTHING. NOT FULLY. BUT I SAW ENOUGH TO KNOW THAT YOU ARE AFRAID OF ME. OF THE THREAT I POSE."

  Papyrus poked at his fingers.

  "AND I KNOW HOW YOU LIVED."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where Papyrus finally picks up that book, pinches himself, Gaster aggressively reads, then things get too real for the gloop-man.
> 
> Ooh, what did Papyrus see? Hey, maybe we'll find out. 
> 
> The original quote from Le Morte d'Arthur in modern english is :--Then they advised the king to send for the duke and his wife by a great charge; and if he will not come at your summons, then may ye do your best, then have ye cause to make mighty war upon him--. 
> 
> Also, [here is the fluffy oneshot I promised! ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5895277)


	37. Spite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word of warning for neglect/mistreatment of children, this is a dark chapter.

  Modern Monsters considered themselves an accepting people, accommodating and polite, necessary in a society that was so diverse. There were some things that some Monsters simply could not do, some lacked the necessary limbs, some lacked even the ability to move, but it was never an issue; no dismissive comments, no offhand refusals. The hallmark of a people that had seen too much hurt, and swore never to reinforce it. There were issues with this on an individual level, as there is with any situation, but it would be a fair statement to say that Monsters, in general, were understanding.

  That, of course, was the strength of modern Monster society, proud, always proud, even when wounded.

   It had not always been the case.

  Gaster was a bastard child in a backwater village, in a place he did not know and did not want to know, unable to speak, unable to feel, but very much able to understand. This was not an issue. But he could not cast magic, could not let it crackle and pop between his fingers, and so in their eyes, could not be magic. He had a mother, presumably, and he had assumed one of the men of the village was his father, although from the way they would look at him there was a very likely chance he had been scraped off of the top of a pond somewhere. In that settlement, in that time, when all you could know were you neighbors and the hills around you, small, but your whole world, there were only a few people you could consult. Those people would, inevitably, be high on superstition, on omens and tides, taking stock in the color of the sky and the way the leaves fell. Oh, there is a full moon, you will have a daughter! Oh, you must hansel your purse, or you will bring us bad luck! Oh, this child is an abomination that will bring death to us all, oh, a Monster without magic! Gaster had always wished they had stuck to their more harmless lies, but he could not protest, though he wanted to.

   He did not need to eat and he did not need to sleep, so he would roam at night, across the valleys, through the lush, grand forests, endless, foreboding and strong. Pitch bark and towering greenery, sublime, perfect foliage, gnarled and rotten and twisted on the inside. But he did not need to look at that, so he did not care. For hours at a time, he would move and drift, gazing and sighing and hoping, because there was not much else he could do, skimming stones came at a herculean effort, and though he would be filled with pride he would never have anyone to share it with. But always, for reasons he himself did not know, he would come back to the village and meander aimlessly, reaching up to gently rap on doors in the middle of the night, peeping his head into the windows of the crucks, still reeking of unweathered timber. They would shout at him, then, but it meant he could know the pleasure of company, so would do it frequently. They would try and hit him, bellow and scream, but could never, and he would try to hold their hand on the off-chance that perhaps he would feel something, a warmth, a sting, which would rile them up more, being touched by this thing. They would shreik, the night ringing with shrill cries of every name under the sun, from the most vile to the impressively creative. He was called an abomination. He was an unwanted mistake whose mere presence brought ill tidings. At times he was compared to a ghost, which would rile up the incorporeal inhabitants of the village, so in an effort to distance themselves further from the roaming child they would compromise and call him a ‘ghast’, still enough to get the point across. He was not given a birth name, so it stuck, until it eventually became a title he could not shake. It stung at the time, as it was meant to. It would come to define him. He was called Ghast because that was what he was.

  They came for him, one night, when he had turned eight, wandering, unable to read or write, simply drifting from home to home and gently, oh so gently, knocking on the doors and the walls. The houses were quiet, and that had surprised him, because he would have liked to see the people in their warm (he had assumed) homes, with their nice families, and pretended, for a moment, that he could be there with them. Not as a Monster without magic. As one of the children he envied. He was clasped by his face, one of the few parts of him with any permanence, any solidity, and dragged to the well by a group of twelve, some of the townspeople jutting their heads out of the window in triumph, some choosing to stay inside, safe in the knowledge that the bad omen, that would roam and knock and would eventually kill their crops, their children, their loved ones if left unattended, would be taken care of. His soul was hidden, small and frail, under his fog, and he noticed the push of three hands on the back of his face, holding him underwater in an attempt to get to it, to wash enough of him away. He liked this well, it wasn’t like the other one on the outskirts of town, with the endless black, the one he was worried he would trip into. He liked this, too, because it was almost as if he was being given an affectionate pat on the head, if you were to remove attempted murder from the equation, which he did. The fog did not dissipate and his soul remained as elusive as ever. He enjoyed the moment. The people were shouting, too. It was nice to be so loved. The shouting turned to yells, the yells to mumbling, then eventually, to low chatter, discussing something Ghast could not hear. He had been there for fifteen minutes. Though he understood what was happening looking back, he would, quietly, consider it one of the finest fifteen minutes of his life. He didn’t have anything to base it on, but from his educated guess, it was what people did to their children. Maybe to clean them?

  He was brought back up then pushed, the crowd dispersing, his soul as intact and difficult to reach as ever. He managed to chirp a noise of appreciation to his new parents, and attempted to hug them, as he had seen the other children do. He was struck. He did not feel it, only noticing the errant shards of his face flecking and falling. Oh. Unfortunate.

  He was left to his own devices as he always was, and he set out, as he always did on pleasant, clear nights, to the forest. He would touch the bark and pretend he could feel it, that he had enough magic in him to do so. He would sometimes see the children playing, running through the fields of wheat, summoning bones and swords and all manner of assorted playthings, pretending they were brave Knights, members of the Royal Guard, Kings and Queens and Princes and Princesses, indulging in all the flights of fancy they wanted. He watched them, pips on the horizon, the noise carrying the carefree shouts, the clack of fresh bones, the low hum of conjuring, and tried. Perhaps that was his problem. He didn’t try enough.

  So he grounded himself, small hands held downwards in focus, and set about summoning as they could, remembering every little twitch of the finger and flick of the wrist.

  The effort left him unconscious for three hours.

  He drifted back like the tide, briefly withdrawing then returning, to the town that did not want him. The crops had been fine that year, and very few people had died of illness, but his status was grafted onto him, the omen, the specter, the ghast. He was not yelled at, this time. He was not hit, he was not acknowledged, it was if he had never existed, had ceased to be on a cosmic scale. He rapped softly on the wooden window coverings, on the doors, on the stone of the walls, speaking with his hands in small, alacritous bursts, the sound ringing in the night, over and through him. There was no answer, but he heard snoring. He wasn’t going to be ignored. That was just rude. His form fell, smoke solidifying into clumps, tumbling and dropping like stones until he could slide under the crack in the door, soul squishing to fit. The house was pleasant, cosy, a hearth on the far end of the small home, a rickety wooden table nearby, scraps of bread and meat left from the most recent meal. There were jugs and jars, jams and preserves, fresh milk and honey. Ghast drifted over and poked a finger in, looking at the substance as it fell and dripped back into the container. It looked sticky. Why would anybody eat this? There were no animals in this house, not like the others. This was probably the merchant’s home, then, a stout man, with squashed features, fitting for the cat-like face, short fur and long ears. Probably one of the men that had held Ghast under the water. He could finally make out his figure and see him asleep in their bed, his wife, a seamstress, was similar, plump and feline, content. Their child was asleep in the smaller straw bed, the one closer to the door. If you were humanoid enough you could make a very good living trading with the human outposts to the south. They would pretend you were just odd looking, instead of spitting as you walked. Clearly they had benefited.

  He drifted closer to the bed to look at them, curious, having never had the opportunity, and noticed one white eye trained on him. The merchant was awake. Ghast stopped, staring in turn, innocently inquiring with his presence. With a huff, the merchant loured, and turned on the bed to face his wife, who was the snorer. Ghast drifted closer still, until he was hovering, a foot away, and gingerly extended his finger.

  Boop!

  He prodded the clearly awake, clearly _furious_ , man in the back, then awaited a response, the soft pops from the fire amusing him. Why would fire pop? The cat-man instead drew further into his covers, tense, making a point to bury his face in his wife’s shoulder, who grumbled in protest. She slowly drew herself up, still asleep, and caught sight of the abomination in their home. Her pleasant, soft expression tumbled from her face, and she joined her husband in turning away from the creature, pretending to settle back and grasping his hand in solidarity. Ghast was confused. Why would they ignore him? He wasn’t so formless as to be invisible, he knew that, and prodded again indignantly, lacking the means to shout. He saw a flicker of green from near the door, and whipped around to examine it. It was the eyes of the child and Ghast darted over at the acknowledgement. Immediately, eyes wide, slit pupils growing in size, the child huddled under their thick, plush blanket, soft, weeping chokes escaping. Ghast prodded that, too, with renewed vigor. The world was his oyster, and he was going to poke the shit out of it. The large bed creaked as the wife was clenching onto her husband’s hand, mumbling something Ghast could not make out, spitting and hissing. They did know he was here, they weren’t stupid, then. He flit over and poked her in the forehead, too.

  She contorted her face like she was giving birth all over again, and turned away. Gaster pouted. He wasn’t going to be ignored, he couldn’t be. An idea crossed his mind. The townspeople thought he was stupid, unable to talk, unable to communicate outside of pointing. He was not. He was observant. He knew that people hated fire being in places where it did not belong. He would not be ignored.

  He walked to the hearth and picked up a large, burning log, glowing like a sunset through those lovely trees, and whapped it against the woman before she had time to react.

  Oh, now _that_ got their attention.

 

  The family survived, for which they should have been exceptionally grateful, but they still ignored him, huddled and weeping and shivering, townsfolk gathering around to offer sympathies and platitudes. Ghast heard the only word that would be spoken to him that day, poking and prodding at the crowd.

  “ _Out._ ”

  He did not listen. He stayed as he was, in the town, in the forest, in the fields, and every night he would return to knock at the windows and tap at the doors, slip in and irritate like fine grit, everywhere, difficult to shift.

  God, how he could not stand to be ignored, how cruel it was, how evil. He just wanted to be looked at. He would give up his other dreams, of a family, of a home, to feel, just for that. He just wanted to be magic, like the others, he just wanted to be loved.

  But if that was what they wanted then fine! He would leave! He would be banished, but only because he himself had allowed it. He would part in the grandest manner possible, so that he would be acknowledged, remembered.

  The people did not waver, united in their belief, a testament to the overwhelming determination of Monsters. Ghast felt spite in his heart, no longer tinged with idle wonder, and once again grasped at kindling, a stick from the hearth of one of the more open homes in the center of town. He was like vapor. He was like steam. He could not be stopped or killed. He simply was, like magic, forever and horrifying.

  The village burned to the ground, and Ghast turned nine.

 

* * *

 

  In the years after he would come to roam the countryside, bumping into other settlements, who would regard him with a macabre fondness usually reserved for the dead, of pity and grim fascination. He would wander to one place, picking up the scraps of bread and crust that would sometimes be left outside for him under the assumption that he needed to eat, then toss them when he was a fair distance away from the town, so that sometimes he could see people lean out and leave things for him, only for him. He would roam, leave, then come back years later to find new people who would regard him with that same curiosity, as if he could not think. As if he could not wait.

 

* * *

 

  Ghast was a man now, his village rebuilt and repopulated with fresh faces, rosy-cheeked children, a lovely skeleton couple that worked in one of the mills, long, lush fields, men and women who would toil the earth and live by the sweat of their brows. By the looks of it, even tentative trade routes had been set up with the humans, linen and cloth and wool in abundance. What a lovely, prosperous place it was, far larger than a hamlet now. The people would look at him as he walked, not with hate, but with faint amusement. This stranger in their town was an odd monster indeed. The only person who refused to gaze was a stout man, weathered and old, who had lost too much and seen too little of the world, with overgrown whiskers and fat, cat features, his hands scorched and skin pink. He would avert his eyes like he was looking into Hell itself, face contorted unnaturally, muscles bending and writhing until they were close to snapping, faint trickles of blood falling from his clenched teeth.

  Ghast smiled and waved, as he was greeting a very old friend indeed, who would age and wither and die, even with his magic, even with his childhood home with the cosy hearth and the soft words, even with the long days in the fields with his friends and the expensive wooden toys, even with the charmed, happy life he was supposed to lead with his parent’s fortune to supplement him, even with the promise of an education, even with the men and women that comforted him when he lost his home, when his parents died destitute with only the husk of the place he loved, even with all that. After all of that he would still die, and nobody would care, and Ghast would not, fine vines with thorns taking route in his heart. It was his fault for never playing with him in the fields. It could have all been avoided, those vines furling and twisting before sprouting into buds of luscious, sweet vindication.

  _Ha-ha._

 

* * *

 

  Ghast had acquired an odd fame in his years, wandering from place to place and watching, observing. The little flicks of magic, people letting it crackle between their fingers as they would hem and haw in thought, fascinated him, and he would walk, and stop, and watch, and people would let him. He could not speak, and a true name still eluded him, so the people of the villages, the hamlets, the settlements took to calling him ‘The Man Who Speaks in Hands’. Apparently his appearance was a good omen, and they would leave him offerings; fruit baskets and trinkets, odds and ends, jewels and baubles. It was good luck to rub one of his palms, to poke at the fine structures and gaze through the hole in them. He was not fond of that one.

 

* * *

 

  If you watched, observed, waited enough, it all became quite clear.

  Magic was an incredibly individual experience, with certain quirks and techniques narrowed down to bloodlines and chance.

  But little flickers, a twitch of the eyelid, a crack of a knuckle, all contributed towards a single fixed point, a single end goal. He was not sure, not truly, not yet, but if he was then it would be a grand, unifying theory behind the mystique, the randomness. It would be unheard of. It would be _revolutionary_.

 

* * *

 

  Ghast taught himself to read, and taught himself to write, his handwriting atrocious but his ideas far-reaching. The Grand Unified Theory of Magic was complete, filled with stances and guides, twitches and techniques, things he had seen and envied over the course of his life, pages upon pages upon pages. Delightful vindication, dancing on the graves of the people that had wronged him, pure, weaponized spite.

  The second word spread, he was called to see the King, in his lovely home, with his lovely wife.

 

* * *

 

  King Asgore was an extraordinarily large man, built like the old laborers of the places where Ghast would intrude, but his demeanor did not fit. He was kind, softspoken and gentle, his wife, Toriel, in the same vein. A very handsome couple that were obviously in love. He smiled sweetly, sincerely, and asked for a name, to which Ghast could not reply. Sensing the rising awkwardness, Asgore immediately sent for a parchment and quill, whilst gushing over the Theory, a grown man, the king, letting his voice rise and dip in genuine excitement. This was nice. Ghast scribbled out his name, penmanship lacking, and gently passed it over. Asgore looked at the paper, then again, eyes narrowed as he tried to decipher the scratches.

  “... Gaster? What an unusual name!”

  He had been given a name again, but under less dire circumstances, sitting with the king, basking in the sunlight with a cup of tea he could not enjoy.

  Oh, the villagers would be going fucking ballistic. Gaster wished they were alive just for that purpose, to see them scowl.

 

* * *

 

  The hamlets became villages, the villages towns, and the towns cities. Monster-Human relations were going well, something very close to a treaty in action after generations upon generations of tension.

 

* * *

 

  The war started.

  The genocide started.

 

* * *

 

  “you want a coffee, doc?”

  ‘You ask me that every time,” Gaster signed, ‘and every time I will say ‘no’, because I cannot drink it.’

  “i know, but... seems kind of rude not to, i guess? didn’t want to seem like i was ignoring you or anything, but when you put it like that i feel like kind of a jackass. if i’m being insensitive, just say, i’ll stop.”

  Gaster paused for a moment. ‘I do not mind. I had assumed you were forgetful.’

  “heh, that still ain’t out of the question.”

  Sans sat in his chair in his office, plain and small, just how he liked it. The fact it was air conditioned was also a huge plus as he looked out over the lava, to the towering pipes and machinery, pulsing like organs. It would be complete soon, within weeks.

  There was a silence between them, Sans standing up to crack his back, grunting, and walking over the coffee machine, jammed haphazardly over paperwork that was probably important. Gaster was looking out, over, through the crags, the lava, hellish and beautiful.

  “so what’s your story, anyway?”

  Gaster swung around, slightly confused, eyebrow cocked. ‘Pardon?’

  “your story. you’re the royal scientist, but nobody really knows anything about you. apparently you just showed up one day and dropped some really hype stuff. that true? pretty wild.”

  Gaster let himself be smug. ‘It is.’

  Sans let out a low, long whistle, chugging at the lukewarm coffee. Needed more sugar. More cream. Less coffee, actually. “but what about before that?” The room was lit with pulses of orange and red, casting a warm glow across the entire facility. The halogen lighting always killed it, so Sans liked to keep the lights off, as long as he could see enough to get a little work done then he was content. “i mean, you must have lived a pretty crazy life.”

  Gaster resumed his position, looking out the window, the light hitting his body and dying in him. The silence was becoming awkward, and Sans could take a hint.

  “hey, if you don’t want to talk about it--”

  He was cut off with a solid gesture of the palm, a ‘stop’ as Gaster collected his thoughts, of a place and period he could almost forget. ‘I was born into unfortunate circumstances... In a time that was not accepting of them.’

  Sans was dumping sugar packets into his mug absent-mindedly before taking another swig. Geeze, he really needed to wash this. “’time’? how far back was this?”

  ‘Six hundred years, give or take. It is easier to round after a while.’

  Sans coughed, spluttering, “holy fuck, you’re old!”

  ‘I noticed.’

  Sans scratched at the nape of his neck, not sure how to continue. it was still odd to be in the presence of a monster so permanent, yet so lacking in magic. It was almost as if he was a human. “so you must have got picked on a bunch, right? i’m sorry you had to go through that. kids can be cruel.”

  ‘That is one way to put it.’

  “how’d you mean?”

  Gaster chuckled silently, his shoulders moving in dark mirth. ‘They believed my presence would cause every harvest to fail, the sun to fall out of the sky and the livestock to go mad and try eating each other. They tried to drown me in a well, and only stopped because it was impossible. It was like bobbing for apples in a macabre way.’

  Sans laughed, hollow and ringing, only doing so out of profound horror, the absolute surprise forcing a sudden response out of him. “holy hell, that’s... this ain’t funny, sorry, i can’t help--”

  ‘It is a response to stress. I understand. Besides, it happened hundreds of years ago. It is fine. They are all dead now.’

  “i... congrats?”

  ‘Thank you.’

  Sans was clenching onto the cup, palms shaking slightly, awkwardly jamming his free hand into the pocket of his lab coat, already feeling a slight judder in his leg. He sat down as naturally as possible. “god, how’d you even cope with something like that?”

  ‘Quite well, I think.’

  Sans was bobbing his other leg now, the coffee bland, yet still too sweet, too cloying. How the hell did the conversation get to this point? Gaster had just revealed something catastrophic like he was talking about the weather. That wasn’t right, to know something so large without recompense. “you just told me something huge. i gotta... look, i get where you’re coming from, alright? i haven’t actually told anybody, but, uh... i mean, god, i can’t let you just throw that out there without being a little honest myself, right?”

  Sans laughed humorlessly, nervously, psyching himself up for something under the guise of setting up something hilarious. “so my home life wasn’t the best. at all. this was before my brother was born. like, it was not good, would not recommend.”

  Gaster looked on, surprised, features soft, soul sitting and thudding in his chest. ‘You are being vague. You do not need to talk about this, you know.’

  Sans held his hands up, already started. “nah, nah, i... look, i’m just gonna come out with it; the worst part wasn’t the hittin’. wasn’t the crack across the face i’d get when i refused to talk...” he said, pointing to his rictus, “it was the waiting for it, y’know? then pap happened, so i went, ‘nah, i’m out, screw this’. i was a real angry kid, even after i bolted...”

  He was hunched, tensed, coiled, eyes up to stare at the ceiling, something that he had come to terms with but hadn’t actually told anyone.

  “... until eventually i just _wasn’t_. i got pap to thank for that, i think. he was real needy when he was a little kid, and i’m saying it in the best way i can, ‘cause i wouldn’t change that. i’d get real angry, real vicious about dumb stuff, zero to a hundred like bam, then i’d look at him and think ‘damn, is it really worth getting upset about’? and the answer was always, always ‘no’. if i didn’t have pap, i don’t... really know what i’d be doin’, actually. nothin’ worse than spite, ruins lives. i'm not gonna roll out the welcome mat for the folks, but i’m not gonna, i dunno, burn down their house down or something. i ain’t lettin' people i hate live in my head rent-free, at least.”

  ‘Are you not angry?’

  “’course i’m angry. i've got every right to be. but after a while that stuff just gets to you. way easier to just take a deep breath and just go with the flow. start lashing out and it just keeps going, doesn’t it? it'll never end. i’m handling it the best way i can.”

  ‘Which is?’

  “ _doin’ nothing_. taking life as it comes, i’m good at that. might as well put that skill to use, right? heh.” He coughed into his closed palm, shutting down the line of inquiry. “so there you go. now we’re square. i mean, not that i nearly drowned, that never--”

  ‘We are quite similar, I think. I never had the opportunity you had, however. With your brother.'

  Sans dropped his voice low, feeling lighter, emptier. “then i pity you, doc.” He immediately forced his voice back to its playful, lazy cadence, letting all sincerity melt away and with it, his worries. “god, that was a real buzzkill, wasn’t it? sorry dude. didn’t mean to just dump that on ya.”

  ‘It is fine. I can understand.’

  Somewhat.

 

* * *

 

 Gaster was everywhere and nowhere, black and white, his soul tattered and torn, his fondness, his passion, scattered to the winds and pieced together until all he knew was spite and magic.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaster suffers under the weight of (literal) medieval superstition, burns down his fucking village, and Sans finally reveals a little about himself. 
> 
> (hopefully this provides a little more context for chapter 32.)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	38. Scarf

  Papyrus was left at the outpost alone, Gaster’s constant, mocking chatter silenced, and could only think. The book did not hold the same appeal it once did.

  One thing was clear to him. The Gaster that had lived, had roamed, had burned, was a different person. One with a soul. With empathy. Guilt. Whose emotions were his own, no matter how destructive, how epowering they were. The Gaster that would talk to him was not that person.

  He was left to process thoughts and memories, little flits of emotion, and their fullness left him emptier. Gaster, in his earlier years, had lived a life nobody deserved, cast out and beaten, scrambling to make sense of an uncaring world that a child could not process in its entirety. And, unfortunately, it seemed as if the same applied to Sans. Relaxed, laid back Sans, had suffered and done so quietly to keep Papyrus happy and innocent, who had in turn acted as an anchor to his morality, his soul. Papyrus mourned for him, for the things he went through and the childhood he could never have, and the death of his idealized image of his parents, kind and gentle.

  Sans had flinched when Papyrus approached him, back in the house, when he had tried to heal his arm.

  Papyrus now knew why. The thought made him want to weep.

 

* * *

 

 

  Frisk arrived an hour later, as determined as ever. Papyrus was glad. He was worried they would be ‘different’, crueler, not Frisk. He didn’t have the energy to believe that they would do the right thing, not this time.

  They trotted up to the guard post to a very drained Papyrus, who was resting his chin on his hands in thought.

  “Boo.”

  “GAH! WHAT? HMM? SORRY, I WAS...” He shook his head, collecting himself, before looking up and smiling. “I WAS SOMEWHERE ELSE.”

  “You look different.”

  He looked at his shirt, his jeans, before nodding. “I DIDN’T FEEL LIKE WEARING MY ARMOUR TODAY. IT...” He held his face awkwardly, not sure where he was going with this. “FEELS A LITTLE SILLY, I SUPPOSE. IT USED TO BE FUN, BUT NOW... I DON’T REALLY LIKE IT ANYMORE. I JUST THREW THE FIRST THING I SAW ON.” He didn’t want to go into detail about the things he had offered Gaster, about what he was willing to give of himself, but the atmosphere was heavy with unanswered questions. Frisk knew better than to ask directly.

  “Are you feeling alright?”

  “NO,” He replied sullenly, honestly.

  They gave him an affectionate poke of the shoulder. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “NO,” he replied again, mumbling into his palms.

  Frisk hoisted themselves up to the desk of the outpost, sitting and letting their legs dangle, feeling them sway in the wind. They spotted a sodden book feet away in the snow, illegible and ruined, and did not ask. Papyrus brought a plastic bag up to the counter and let it thud against the surface gracelessly.

  “THEY’RE A LITTLE SOGGY, SORRY.”

  “It’s fine. I’m getting a little sick of cinnamon bunnies, if I’m being honest.”

  “I’M MORE THAN WILLING TO DRAW UP AN ELABORATE TIME-SPACE SNACK ROTATION, BUT... WOULD YOU MIND IF I LEFT IT FOR NOW? I’M NOT IN THE MOOD FOR SHENANIGANS.”

  “I wouldn’t have asked you to draw up a rotation. You wouldn’t need to bring any at all, really.”

  "PLEASE, IF I’M BRINGING YOU CAKES I’M GOING TO DO IT RIGHT. BAR GRAPHS. STATS. A TIMETABLE.”

  Frisk leaned closer, voice comforting and eyes soft, trying to counter Papyrus’ pique. “A pie chart?”

  Papyrus, despite his mood, cracked a smile. “HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN WAITING TO ROLL THAT ONE OUT?”

  “Longer than I’m comfortable admitting.”

  He craned his neck to look over to Snowdin, so quiet that he heard the bones pop and creak as he moved, and looked to his home. “HOW DO YOU DO IT?”

  Frisk broke out of their own little bubble, the chance at a serious conversation drawing them back to reality as the wood creaked underneath them. “Do what?”

  He kept staring at the town, the place that was not his own, but was. “I’M NOT SURE. ‘IT’. KEEP GOING, I GUESS. IT’S SO DIFFICULT. I’M SO TIRED, FRISK. I’M SO VERY, VERY TIRED.”

  Frisk looked at their bobbing feet in thought, rattling in against the wood of the post as they swayed back and forth. “I just do. I always have. I want to get everybody out of here, so I will, no matter how long it takes. I think you can keep going, if you try. Even if you don’t think so.”

  “... DO YOU MEAN THAT?”

  Frisk hopped down from the desk, scraping the back of their knees in the process, and brought their hand up to point grandly at themselves, in the way they had seen Papyrus do many times.

  He smiled weakly in response, sincere but tired. “YOU HAVEN’T GOT THAT DOWN YET.”

  “You can show me,” they prodded, fanning the flames of Papyrus’ rising mood.

  He stood up, still hollow in the eyes but distracted, and stretched before letting himself fall back into his natural stance. He forced himself to be a little more boisterous. “ALRIGHT! FIRST OF ALL, YOU WILL NEED A SCARF, OR A CAPE! OTHERWISE YOU’RE JUST POINTING AT YOURSELF LIKE YOU’RE CONFUSED. THAT’S JUST EMBARRASSING. I CANNOT LET THAT STAND.”

  “I don’t have a cape,” they said, “or a scarf. Can’t I just skip that?”

  “NO. THAT WOULD BE SHAMEFUL.” He hesitated for a moment before gently unhooking his scarf from around his neck, the most valuable thing he had, and gingerly handed it over.

  Frisk let out a soft ‘ooh’, aware that it meant a lot to him, and quietly wrapped it around their own neck. It was warm, and comforting. They didn’t know how bones could be warm, specifically, but they didn’t compromise the moment by piping up.

  “PLEASE BE CAREFUL WITH THAT. I DO NOT KNOW IF HUMANS OCCASIONALLY BURST INTO FLAMES, BUT JUST IN CASE YOU DO, I’M GOING TO ASK YOU TO NOT DO THAT.”

  “We can’t set ourselves on fire.” They paused, scratching an itch on the side of their face idly. “Well... We can’t set ourselves on fire more than once...”

  “OH THANK GOD. THERE IS A LOT ABOUT HUMAN BIOLOGY THAT STILL MYSTIFIES ME, SO I JUST WANTED TO CHECK.” He let his mind wander, losing himself in idle daydreams. “... LIKE THE APPENDIX. I’VE HEARD ABOUT THAT. WHAT DOES IT DO?”

  Frisk laughed, getting swept up in it all. “Would you believe me if I said nothing? It just sits there and occasionally explodes.”

  “THAT’S SO COOL. AND DANGEROUS. AND A LITTLE GROSS, ACTUALLY. I WISH I HAD ORGANS THAT WOULD EXPLODE. THE STRANGEST THING THAT HAPPENS TO ME IS THAT I CAN ACCIDENTALLY WHAP PEOPLE WITH MY MAGIC IF I’M NOT CAREFUL, IN A FIT OF RIGOROUS BONING.”

  Frisk was, very clearly, stifling a giggle.

  "... NO, WAIT, HOLD ON, I MEAN, LIKE, IN TRAINING WITH UNDYNE! I WOULD SUMMON BONES AND HIT TARGETS, AND SOMETIMES SUMMON TOO MANY, NOT THE OTHER THING. I WOULD BONE THE DUMMIES WITH LITERAL BONES, BECAUSE I AM A SKELETON.”

  Frisk was outright laughing at this point, doing away with manners.

  Papyrus was clutching his face in embarrassment. “OH MY GOD, THIS IS THE WORST.” He coughed quickly in an attempt to move on, which Frisk allowed him. “RIGHT. SO. THE POSE. THE FIRST THING YOU DO...” He dropped his hand to he side, pointing at the ground with great intensity, as if it owed him money. “IS DROP YOUR ARM LIKE THIS!”

  Frisk mimicked the gesture clumsily.

  “THEN...” Papyrus let his hips jut out to the side a little, a counter to the way he was puffing out his chest and arching his back, a distraction from the foreign feeling of his exposed neck.

  Frisk, in turn, did the same.

  “NO, REALLY PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT.”

  “I’m pulling a muscle.”

  “THAT’S A GOOD SIGN, PROBABLY. IT’S TO CATCH THE WIND.”

  “I think this is a stress position. There are laws against this on the surface.” Frisk broke into giggles, enjoying the rare chance to be a dumb kid.

  “THE PEOPLE THAT MADE THOSE LAWS CLEARLY DO NOT CARE ABOUT LOOKING COOL.”

  Frisk tried again, in earnest, but could not manage it, their smaller frame not built for posing. They let out a defeated puff of air, before dropping it, the wind not billowing under the scarf at all. “It’s just not happening.”

  “YOU CAN’T DO IT IF YOU SAY THINGS LIKE THAT!” With uncommon swiftness, Papyrus grabbed Frisk under their shoulders and hoisted them above his head, letting them sit on his shoulders, legs dangling over his chest. “NYEH-HEH! NOW YOU CAN CATCH THE WIND!”

  Frisk balked, laughing nervously, the height unsettling them even if they were playing along. “I’m way too old to be carried around on somebody’s shoulders!”

  “YOU ARE ALSO TALKING TO A SKELETON WHO IS TEACHING YOU HOW TO POSE DESPITE THE FACT WE OCCASIONALLY GO BACK IN TIME. OUT OF ALL THE THINGS TO QUESTION, I DON’T THINK THAT IS ONE OF THEM.”

  “Good point.”

  They tried against, teetering precariously, to pose, swooping down their arm then bringing it back up in triumph, the wind running under their scarf, letting it flap.

  “I feel so dramatic.”

  “THEN I HAVE DONE MY JOB.”

  Frisk wobbled, hands reaching out in panic, desperately looking for something to grab onto, which they found in the holes in Papyrus’ face. He yelped in surprise, deftly grabbing Frisk and plonking them down before scratching at the areas, the inside of his nasal bone and eye sockets. “I AM NOT A BOWLING BALL.”

  “Sorry.”

  He did the pose himself, effortless and practiced, an elaboration of the one he had seen Sans do previously all those years ago. It still felt strange without his scarf. But this was nice. It was almost as if he had another sibling, one that could look up to him, even if the circumstances were not ideal.

  He noticed that he, for the first time in months, was having fun. He could lose himself in this moment, he could feel his problems slip into the back of his mind.

  Frisk was smiling back. “I thought you weren’t in the mood for ‘shenanigans’.”

  “THIS IS JAPERY. THERE IS A WORLD OF DIFFERENCE.” He didn’t want the fun to end, not yet. “I BET YOU ONE MEAL, OF YOUR CHOOSING, THAT YOU CAN’T HIT THAT TREE OVER THERE WITH...” He looked around himself, scanning the ground for a sufficient object, and dipped down to pick up a pebble. “THIS.”

  “Wow, those are some high stakes.” They walked over, taking the pebble and ran their thumb over the smooth surface. They looked to the tree, still a sapling, around fifteen feet away. It was good to see Papyrus happy, lost in the innocent fun of it all. “And if you hit it, then I’ll do the same. I’ll make you something.”

  “I WANT A SOUFFLÉ.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “DO NOT HATE THE PLAYER, FRISK. HATE THE GAME. AND ALSO FEEL FREE TO HATE THE SOUFFLÉ YOU WILL NEED TO MAKE ME, BECAUSE YOU WILL LOSE.”

  Frisk felt their heart swell with determination as they primed themselves, swinging their arm back and whipping it as hard as they could, letting the stone fly in an arc...

  ... Straight into a nearby shrub, nowhere near the tree. Well, that was that. They looked expectantly to Papyrus, who was almost gleeful. They watched as he let his magic crackle and fizz between his hands, teal and soft, clearly summoning a bone to toss. He would probably win. He would probably boast. He would probably let Frisk’s end of the bargain slide.

  Papyrus watched as his magic was wrenched away from him, bones cracking and splitting and growing like cancer until it had taken the form of a large, dog-like skull, that groaned and creaked. This was not of him, it was too strong, too much magic, too much, all of it. The impossible floodgates had opened, and he was bombarded with power he could not possibly hope to control, his own soul overwhelming him. Gaster was to his side, gently cupping his face as he convulsed, barely standing. He was screaming. It felt like he was being electrocuted.

  “Thank you for using your magic. It was all I needed.”

  The skull leered at Frisk, who was stunned still, and fired, puncturing a foot-long circle into left side of their body. They could not see Gaster.

  “Pap... Pyrus--?”

  They were dead before they hit the ground.

  All at once it stopped, the magic died, the hideous skull dissipated, and Papyrus was left on his knees, crawling, overwhelmed with horror.

  “F... FRISK? FRISK?”

  “The good thing about leaving your body to inhabit the void,” Gaster gloated, “is that you can throw about as much magic as you want. That is to say, I can force so much on you that you can not possibly control it. I feel like you would appreciate it more if I hadn’t just killed your friend. That was for your benefit, as you’ll come to see.”

  Papyrus, traumatized and distant, started quietly picking up the organs, the gore, the viscera, and began to gently put them back inside the gaping torso of their bestie, already somewhat cauterized by the blast. Long tendrils of pink, blue, purples and reds, so much red, red everywhere until it was all he saw, vivid against the white of the snow, droplets and flecks in a fine mist. He didn’t know where everything went, his clumsy fingers accidentally split the sinew, his shaking hands puncturing a bag-like one, but he knew that Humans needed them to live. They slid limply out onto the snow, reeking of rust, still warm and steaming against the cool air, so he kept going. They would tumble and he would gently, like he was handling the mechanism of a ticking clock, put them back in, with as delicate a touch as he could muster. Frisk couldn’t walk around, or talk, or give very long hugs without organs. It was non-negotiable. So he would put them back, and they would be fine and he would be fine, and he would buy them as much ice cream as they wanted, and they would laugh. They would laugh and laugh and laugh, over and over, because they were going to stand up any second now. They were very determined. Sans would leap out of the nearby bushes, Gaster would be Undyne in a costume, and it would all have been a grand jape, the greatest practical joke the world had ever seen, unparalleled, and Papyrus would be so proud; sweet and gentle and static, because he wasn’t a murderer. Papyrus was a Good skeleton, who tried to do only Good things, because the world had seen too much suffering and he didn’t want to add to that. He was sticky with blood. It was unpleasant. He didn’t know how Humans could walk around with all of this gunk inside of them. It would be fine once he put it all back, clean and orderly, just the way he liked it, the way things were meant to be. They kept sliding out. They weren’t warm now. The colorful tubes of flesh weren’t even whole.

  His scarf was ruined.

  “I told you this would happen. But of course, you don’t listen to me, do you? You are welcome, by the way.”

  Papyrus meekly shook Frisk on the shoulder, sticky with gore, too distraught to sob. “GET UP.”

  “Most people attempt to massage the heart in an immediate attempt to bring the person back, but I suppose fondling their liver is fine as well.”

  Oh. So that was what he was holding. What was a liver? The name seemed ironic. He couldn’t laugh.

  “P-PLEASE GET UP. I’M SORRY. PLEASE STAND UP.”

  “I’ve heard it’s difficult to recover from disembowelment.”

  He shook harder this time, Frisk’s face frozen in a permanent look of betrayal, a death mask that mocked and tortured him, a look that would stay with him until the day he died. “GET UP. YOU HAVE TO GO TALK TO SANS, A-AND GO TO GRILLBY’S. I WON’T COMPLAIN ABOUT THE GREASE. PLEASE, PLEASE STAND UP. I DIDN’T MEAN IT. I WON’T BREAK THE BARRIER, I WON’T DO IT. I’LL WAIT HERE UNTIL YOU RESET.”

  Slowly, he watched as their soul appeared, sitting in the gaping hole where their heart would be. It tried to latch onto him, not as Frisk, but as a Human that had been defeated in combat by a Monster. It was the natural way of things.

  He poked it back into their chest, where it should be, and waited for them to get up, refusing the power it offered. Gaster was at his side, gently rubbing the back of his skull in comfort, in a fit of abominable sincerity.

  “I TOLD YOU I WOULDN’T BREAK THE BARRIER,” he choked. “I TOLD YOU. I STILL WON’T.”

  Gaster made a ‘shh’, and Papyrus was too broken to fight against the contact, thoroughly disgusted. He wished Sans were here. Sans could give him a hug and tell him everything would be fine.

  “Thinking on it, you don’t need to. I may be more now, but at my heart, I am still a Monster.”

  Gaster swooped down and claimed the soul before Papyrus had time to say anything.

  It wasn’t that Papyrus wanted to die. He just didn’t want to live anymore.

 

* * *

 

  The thing with wishes is, that with enough force of will, with enough clout, they might come true. It wasn't necessarily a benevolent cosmic force throwing you a bone, but as part of an exertion. If you had enough power behind you, perhaps in your words, perhaps in your actions, perhaps in the way you were perceived, then your wishes had an odd habit of coming true through sheer force of will, as people would bend and cow.

  In those seconds, those fractions of time, those thin slivers of existence he had been gouged with like shrapnel, where he had been bestowed cataclysmic powers and accidentally wrought terror, he wished. He wished and prayed to every deity he could think of, ignorant though he was.

  Gaster, in his overkill, in his spite, had given too much. It was not enough to simply kill the child and _claim_ their soul, oh no, he had to obliterate them and ravage their soul, and he pumped Papyrus full of restless infinity to do so, high on hubris and vicarious magic.

  Papyrus wished Sans was there, in those moments of absolute, crippling power. To comfort him. To soothe him. To give him a pat on the back and say everything would be alright. It was selfish, and it was wasteful, but he did. He wanted it all to be over.

  And Gaster realized the full extend of his mistake as he was assailed with sensation that was not his own. Nor was it Papyrus’, whose fury was concentrated. His hate, tempered. His pity, hidden. His control, absolute.

  In fact, Gaster was certain it was bounding up the path towards them, seconds away, white pips and grit teeth, an imminent bad time whose consciousness could not be torn from it, no matter how hard Gaster tried.

  No matter. He had a Human soul, after all. This was for their own good.

  Gaster was going to break the barrier and live through them forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (MEGALOVANIA BLARES) 
> 
> In which the cute shenanigans go TERRIBLY WRONG.


	39. Gadfly

  The feeling that Sans had been forgetting something, that little niggle that had been bothering him all day, had shattered into a thousand pieces, each slit of shrapnel gouging and scraping a memory into him, punctuated with the shriek of magic through the air and a wail no creature should be able to make. He remembered what had happened, what had been done to him, those same conversations he had repeated over and over again, those same puns, those same dumb little gags he would pour over, and he remembered Papyrus. Who had been there, resolute and knowing.

  Who had changed places with Sans. Who had said an awful thing. Who had indulged Sans’ ignorance. Who had broken his hand and somehow figured out how to heal it. Who had endured over three months of the same life Sans had led, alone.

  Well.

  Not quite ‘alone’. Not truly.

  Sans had been given the opportunity to be lazy, to take it easy after being condemned by misfortune, then freed by an altogether different kind of misfortune, more benevolent, soft around the edges, and he swore not to be lazy, not to slack until he was well and truly back in the loop. He reached the end of the path, stumbling into the clearing, mind swimming with thoughts and the smell of something metallic. Why was his dead boss here, patting his brother on the head? That didn’t bode well. Papyrus was on the ground, but where was the k--

  Oh. Huh. There they were. Bits of them anyway. Yeah, he had some catching up to do. Sans felt his knees quake, his legs shift underneath his own weight as he rocked on them back and forth, back and forth, processing, thinking, waiting, thinking, always, always; watching, observing and just looking. He was cut out of his thoughts, like a scalpel across his eye socket, suddenly, and with cold severity, as he realized what was happening.

  “papyrus...” he said, moving slowly towards him but keeping his gaze fixed on Gaster, who was staring back, “what, uh... mind filling me in--”

  “IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME.”

  Sans felt a breath leave him, long and shaky, cavernous sockets unable to look away from Frisk's corpse. “c’mon, d-don’t say stuff like that. where’s their soul? if it’s intact then they’ll reset.”

  Papyrus was slumped over Frisk, hand limply applied to the encompassing hole in their torso, desperately trying to keep them together, his left hand pointing at Gaster like a dowsing rod.

  Oh. Damn. That made things difficult. Gaster recoiled entirely, a tiny red soul peeping out as he reconstituted ten feet away to survey the situation.

  “... they’re in _this_ bozo? this freaky gaster knockoff?” He motioned, the soothing edge to his voice grounding but entirely false, as he gently nudged Papyrus on the shoulder, motioning for him to get up. Sans would be strong and stoic, the stability Papyrus desperately needed, even if he himself craved it. “you’re telling me he killed them? fuckface over here?”

  Gaster rasped out an indignant response, his pride dictating it even as he delighted in his newfound power, his permanence, his selflessness. “ _Dr._ ”

  “ _dr._ fuckface. that really the point you want to get hung up on?”

  Gaster felt so warm, so alive. He felt the snow underneath, the pulsing of a soul one thousand times stronger than the original he had been saddled with, he felt the wind against him, he felt, he felt, he felt. But he could always feel more. Breaking the barrier was still the plan, and after that, the climax. Papyrus was so thoroughly ruined that he could be forced to wedge the rest of the shrapnel into himself, into the gaps in his body; vertebrae, scapula, ribs, pubis, before finally being ousted from his own form completely. Gaster could live a full, happy life, he would gorge on food, sleep with everyone he could, and choke back all the alcohol he could tolerate in a fit of long overdue hedonism. The human soul he enjoyed would be used up, and he could not return to the half-feelings, the inclinations. Not now. Sans could also be there. He would understand. He was smarter than he let on, after all. A friend. What person wouldn’t see this as the most reasonable course of action?

  “Sans, it seems--”

  “i get the feeling,” Sans interrupted, drawling, hands balled in his hoodie pockets as he lazily rocked on the balls of his feet, inches away from Papyrus in an act of solidarity. “that this is your fault. not just, y’know. the child murder. which is a pretty big strike against you. but everything. all of this.”

  There was silence between them, opposite ends of the path, the trees long and bleak like the bars of a prison. Gaster went to speak again, but was cut off, Sans scrambling to find even the smallest ways to stay on top.

  “... and i get the feeling that you’re gonna try and give me a speech; a really big, long speech, to try and win me over. so go for it. i’m interested.”

  “Ahh, excellent. You always were the smart one, weren’t you? You see--”

  “wait, lemme just summarize my rebuttal to any kind of ‘question’ you’re gonna throw at me. ‘ooh, we both had hard lives, blowing up kids is a-ok’, ‘ooh, look at me, i’m gonna toss myself into the core’, ‘wow, being alive and having a soul and feeling guilt is for losers’. i’ll just reel ‘em off: ‘no’, ‘no’, ‘no’, ‘go fuck yourself’, ‘no’, ‘i will backhand you to death if you try anything’, ‘stay the hell away from us’. i’m gonna round it off with one more ‘go fuck yourself’, odd numbers just don’t feel right, y’know? what the hell do you even _want_ , anyway?”

  “ _You._ ”

  “join the line buddy, most people just send a box of chocolates. not, y’know. trap people in an endless hell. unless that’s your fetish or something.”

  Gaster felt the endless swirling of his new soul, that squirmed and twitched in his chest, and gave himself arms, legs. Lovely, useful limbs he had seen people flaunt, functioning instead of the useless spindles he was used to. “You are just as scared as he is. You hide behind your glibness, your jokes, but the only reason you are not a crying mess is because he needs you to stay strong.”

  Sans looked him up and down, eyebrows cocked, ready to act if immediate danger presented itself. “whoa, good job on the psychology degree, i’ve heard that’s difficult to get when you’re dead. what, you a mind reader or something?”

  Papyrus finally craned his head up to look at Sans, face caked in gore, blankly aware that he had somehow done this, grateful and devastated. “YES.”

  “heh, good one.”

  “NO. REALLY. I’M BEING SERIOUS.”

  “goddamit.”

  Gaster drifted closer, Sans quietly withdrawing his hand in warning before Papyrus wrenched it in his own. “DON’T USE YOUR MAGIC, YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING BUT SPEAK. I-IT’S HOW FRISK, HOW I, HOW--”

  Sans looked down at him, eyes wide, wrists limp. “geeze, really? god.” He laughed, humorless and hollow, bringing out his other hand to squeeze Papyrus’ in solidarity. “this isn’t how i thought this day was gonna go. how’d i end up here anyway? the more i know, the more i can help you.”

  Papyrus peeled his hand away, fine chunks of viscera sticking to his bony fingers, vaguely aware of the fact he had been crying, then stopped, fine tracks of swollen tears stuck to his face. “BECAUSE I WANTED YOU HERE TO COMFORT ME. BECAUSE I’M AN AWFUL, SELFISH PERSON. I JUST WANT THIS TO BE OVER, SANS. I JUST WANT THIS TO BE DONE, EVEN IF I NEED TO DIE. I KILLED SOMEONE. IT WOULD ONLY BE FAIR.”

  Sans looked to Gaster who was wringing his hands, watching and observing in the same way one would watch ants crawl from place to place, with a fondness reserved for lesser creatures. His voice was low, rumbling, dips and lulls, pauses as he had become accustomed to his own comic timing, lilts smoothing over the malice apparent in it. “what the hell did he do to you, pap? this goes beyond the loops, doesn’t it?”

  Papyrus nodded weakly. “HE’S BEEN TALKING TO ME. SAYING THINGS.”

  Gaster watched as Sans wrenched his skull back up, neck popping, his demeanor like a razor-blade wrapped in cotton, softness hiding steel. “really?” he said, as if he was reviewing a shopping list. “want me to blow him up a little?”

  Papyrus nodded again.

  “Good luck with that. I am trying to have a civil discussion. You are welcome to join it.”

  “fine. no jokes. what is it you want?”

  “To live a normal life,” he said simply, genuinely.

  “see, that sounds innocent. if you told me that one day, i’d back you. but i don’t buy it. _how_ do you want to live a normal life?”

  “In your brother--”

  Huge specters, large, deformed skulls, surrounded Gaster, horrifying light in their maws as they screeched out a blast, white hot and raging, crackling with unnatural electricity. The same kind Papyrus had conjured accidentally, summoned with ease and control, untrained power coordinated just so. The skulls vanished, the smoke cleared, a nearby tree was on fire and Gaster was stood there, peppered with holes but otherwise unharmed.

  His body filled in the gaps, thick, stringy ropes of new flesh tying themselves together. “I can’t help but sense some hostility.”

  Papyrus scratched his face confusedly, unable to reach into Gaster’s mind, unable to parse even his own train of thoughts. “YOUR... I THOUGHT, YOUR MAGIC--”

  “if he wanted me dead then it would have already happened. i gambled.”

  “My, you are astute. How did you know?”

  “i didn’t. i guessed. but now i do.” Sans said with a lazy shrug of the shoulders, gently kicking Papyrus in a ‘get up’ motion. Frisk reeked. Poor kid. “not much of a mind reader, are ya? falling for something like that. less ‘psychic’, more ‘sideshow’. almost as if there’s somebody here that doesn’t want you snooping around in my head. somebody that, maybe, dragged me back into this to kick your ass. right, pap?”

  Papyrus furrowed his brow, the horror of the scene in front of him finally settling into the pools of his mind until it was his whole world. That was a good point.

  “You are testing my patience. I am trying to let you live. Let me pass, I will break the barrier. It will be over. You will be free.”

  “nah. i don’t move for bullies.”

  Gaster balked, voice low, bubbling and choking like tar. “I am no such thing. You know how I lived. I know how you lived. Can you not see how--”

  “i’d like to refer to my earlier point of ‘go fuck yourself’. you had a bad time. that sucks. sorry about that. but the second you start forcing your bullshit on other people is the second i start freaking out about it. you’re an asshole. plain and simple. hell, you’re worse than those villagers you hate so much ‘cos at least they only got as far as attempted murder. wait, hold on, let me sign this out for you, maybe then you’ll get it...”

  Sans flipped him off.

  “... i mean, i had a bad time too, but i don’t need to suppress the urge to burn down an orphanage in a fit of rage each time somethin’ doesn’t go my way, y’know? ‘cos i’m a reasonable person. the problem is you. whatever you are, and trust me, it ain’t gaster, all you got is anger. all you got is hate. spite. but there’s no excuse for this. ever. never. i don’t care if those villagers tried to punch you straight into the friggin’ sun, you get no sympathy.” He looked to Papyrus, who was fractured, hollowed and dead. “none.”

  Gaster felt his eye twitch. He didn’t need Sans alive. It would be nice, a backup, somebody he could forcibly bring around once he wedged himself in Papyrus. But he didn’t need to.

  Sans squared his shoulders in the way he had seen Papyrus do so many times, when time were tough and he needed to be strong, and looked to him. He was still slumped, softly weeping, the fight in him gone.

  “you gonna help me, or what? ‘cause we’re not gonna fix anything if this guy’s hanging around. ”

  “HE TOOK FRISK’S... HE HAS A HUMAN SOUL, SANS. HOW CAN WE POSSIBLY WIN? HE’S MADE OF MAGIC.”

  “yeah? so are we. and i think this counts as self-defense. but i can’t do this without you. we'll figure something out. always have.”

  Papyrus, in his distant, idle drifting, through his own thoughts, his own memories, the experiences that had been forced upon him, came to a realization. He thought of the game they had played, in his cozy room with its warm colors, the recollection driving him like a beating, twitching heart. He had won _that_ game, chess, when he had really tried. And though he was losing this, had already lost, covered in gore, broken, he had won _that_ game. He _could_.

  “'THERE ARE SO MANY POSSIBLE MOVES'...” Papyrus said, finding his voice, high, nasal, tempestuous in its tone, spitting Gaster’s words back at him, “ ... 'THAT IT WILL BE DIFFICULT FOR ME TO TELL WHAT YOU WILL DO'.”

  Gaster’s face twitched, so slightly, ever so slightly, at the comment. Sans saw, and though he did not understand the context, did not grasp the significance, he knew full well that somebody does not twitch when they are pleased with the way events are proceeding.

  “huh. would you look at that. dude’s upset. we might actually do this.”

  “No,” Gaster responded, arms stretching and thinning out until they became like long whips, horrifying, primed and precise, thrashing and wriggling like worms wrenched from the earth below.

  “this is it, isn’t it? whatever happens, happens. no goin’ back.”

  “I THINK SO.”

  “i think i pissed him off too much. i don’t know what’s happening, but he’ll take control of our magic, right?”

  “NO,” Papyrus spat with a determination Sans had never seen, commanding and worrying, “ _I WON’T LET HIM. NOT AGAIN._ ”

  “...if something happens to me-- permanently-- then i just want you to know i love ya. more than anything. more than myself. bye, pap. it’s been a good one--”

  “NO GOODBYES. I CAN’T STAND THEM. THEY’RE SO PERMANENT.”

  Papyrus discarded the very last of his high standards. He was a murderer. He was a bad person. He was what the Guard protected people from. He was a monster. But if that was the case, then what was one more death in the grand scheme of things? He summoned a club, a large femur, blunt and brutal, and set his sights on Gaster, mentally preparing himself for a course of action he swore he would never take, shuddering like he was being hanged from the neck. He could feel Gaster trying to wrench it away, but it refused under his own will, his dogged perseverance. Sans took note of the twitches, the little movements, the way Papyrus’ back tooth cracked from the pressure he was putting on it, caked in slick, brown gore. He didn’t want to do this. But if it was between letting Papyrus harden under the pressure or crack entirely, then this would do.

  “My, you really are quite the soldier, aren’t you? So strong. So spiteful. Far from the weak willed fool you were. Why, it's almost like you're a different person. This will be a lot easier if you just _stay_ broken. I can think of _many, many_ ways to do that.”

  Sans summoned his blaster, surprising himself with his own control, and they began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Sans shows up and starts righteously bitching, and Papyrus is once again FUCKING DONE
> 
> This took longer than usual, sorry! I have the flu -_-; but hopefully the fic will resume as normal! (I have also taken some medication for it because it's pretty bad, so if there are any errors in this chapter i will apologize right now, it's probably that)


	40. Angry

  Papyrus scrambled forward, the tightness of his grip straining his entire left side, so used to the weight of his weapon that he did not tip or falter. It dragged on the snow underneath, kicking it up in flurries as he threw himself, pushing his full weight into the swing, two hundred and forty pounds wrenched into motion as he made contact with Gaster. It sailed uselessly through him, fine frays of flesh binding itself back together, spatterings of black gunk coating the bone as it reappeared in an imitation of gore. Papyrus tumbled as the inertia carried him, one knee to the ground, vulnerable bones of his neck exposed. Gaster did not move, did not justify the useless spectacle with eye contact, and instead focused his gaze on the gadfly dedicated to throwing snarky remarks in the face of abominable reality. It was a lot less endearing than he remembered. Sans was stood ten feet away, the air around him popping and crackling with magic, a thinly veiled threat he had every intention of acting on, coiled and waiting. His hands were still snugly in his hoodie.

  Papyrus pushed himself away using the bone as leverage as he scrambled, flat on his ass, kicking his full weight back. That was what Sans needed. Without the fear of collateral damage, he conjured up another skull, twice his size and fired with a dismissive motion of his arm, aiming for Gaster’s chest, his core, piercing it with a punch of magic. It did nothing. Settling like treacle, tar, Gaster’s body dripped and sunk back into itself, rushing to fill the gaps like honey. Gaster dipped forward slightly, ready to pounce, his form dissipating. Papyrus was well aware that if Gaster were to close the gap then Sans would die. He could dodge. But he could not do so forever.

  In a panic, Papyrus lunged forward, dismissing his weapon and grabbing at Gaster with both hands, attempting a tackle, blindly summoning magic in the way an animal would thrash; wildly and great fear. To his surprise, it connected. To his delight, Gaster did not dissipate. In fact, it seemed as if he couldn’t vanish at all; grounded and very much still there, eyes wide in surprise, body dotted with blue light that swirled and moved like silk in water.

  “... YOU’RE BLUE NOW? YOU’RE BLUE NOW! OH MY GOD, IT HIT! THAT’S MY ATTACK--”

  Papyrus felt his leg be wrenched from under him, a grasping, groping hand on his ankle, yanking. He tumbled forward gracelessly, landing painfully on his hands, clattering his arms on the ice of the ground. He could feel Gaster’s gaze on him, towering above, tutting at the scrapes, at the damage in the same way someone would admonish vandalism. Papyrus threw his head to the side to look at the intrusion, feeling his ribs bottom out in revulsion. There was a puddle of black, lightless fluid at his feet, that looked like it did not belong, that it had no depth, yet was bottomless, and out of that puddle poked an arm, a skeletal hand with a perfect puncture in the middle. It held onto him firmly, grip unnaturally tight, powered with magic and the strength of a human soul, the thumb rubbing circles affectionately, soothingly, into the bone. Papyrus kicked with enough force to snap it, and was rewarded with two hands in their place. He thrashed, kicking and scratching, reaching under to pick them off with his own skinny fingers, grunting and screeching animalistically, every broken palm summoning another until he could feel them undulate against his shins, pinning him.

  Gaster looked down at him, his own hands clasped, long whip-like tendrils falling like silk sleeves around them, the faint crackle of magic in his palms. “Don’t hurt yourself, it’s not good for me. Stay there.”

  “NO!”

  “Yes.”

  Gaster rolled the lights of his eyes dismissively, before turning away completely to face Sans, who was shuddering with contempt, his grin plastered and his tone false in its camaraderie. “let him go.”

  “I do care for you, you know. I did want to leave you alive. I really did. But you couldn’t stop talking.”

  “cool. don’t care. you’re a dick. let him go.”

  “I’m not going to hurt him.”

  “you already have. you’ve been sayin’ stuff, he told me.”

  “Oh, please. Nothing that wasn’t the truth.”

  “really? huh. and what was that, exactly?”

  “Hmm, y--”

  Gaster felt a snap of white-hot pain, blinding and catastrophic, as the lasers screeched through him once again, Sans looking on expectantly, monstrous skulls on either side, dissolving as quickly as they came. Perhaps this time it would work. All at once the pain stopped and Gaster healed, the warmth from the wriggling soul in his chest toasting him pleasantly from the inside, a blanket around his innards.

  “y’know, when most people get hit by lasers they have the decency to die.”

  “I always was quite the trendsetter,” he gargled, voice slowly finding its way to his normal rasp. “You wouldn’t know how to summon those things if it weren’t for me, for my theories. Wouldn’t know how to stand. How to flick your wrist. To channel it--”

  Sans threw a glance to Papyrus who was still thrashing on the ground, giving it his all, pinned by his legs. He soothed his expression, warping it into a ‘can you believe this guy?’ look, as if somebody had cut in front of him in line. The false levity punctured the gravity of the situation, and Papyrus felt slightly better, the silly gesture drawing him out of his rage. “holy shit, i preferred it when he couldn’t talk. really makin’ up for lost time, huh?”

  Gaster cast a glance in Papyrus’ direction, delighting in the thought of cheap thrills. Fame. Glory. Food. Sex. Alcohol. Excess. Acknowledgement once again, something he had unknowingly sacrificed in his despair. “Oh, I will.” He let the whips of his arms, fine like silk but tapered to a cutting edge, fall to his side before casting one forth, aiming for Sans’ neck, one deft slice and the deed would be done.

  It sliced through the air with a crack, hitting the ground before Gaster whipped them back, swaying his whole body for momentum. They missed their intended target. Sans had dipped his posture back, staring, watching the tendril pass by his vision.

  “missed.”

  With a scowl and a curse Gaster swung again, overflowing with magic, dragging his arm back to himself like a rake, the other swinging closing the long gap between them, aiming for Sans’ ribs. If he split them then Sans would surely die. Sans bent his knees and dipped his whole body back like he was being dared to limbo under a street sign, swinging back up after the whip sailed over him. Sans still had his hands crammed into his pockets, the sweat running down his forehead betraying his true mood. “the important thing is that you tried.”

  The grip on Papyrus’ legs lessened slightly. Not by much, but they did, hands lain over one another like scales, thick tar connecting them, but he noticed. Gingerly, he peeled one off, and it did not protest.

  Sans shot him a glance, his plan working.

  With great care, Papyrus brought himself to his feet, the disconcerting weight causing him to sway, and ran his hands down his shins in a sweeping motion, the hands falling limply to the ground. He kept crouched, taking care not to be seen by Gaster. The second the distraction failed, that his concentration returned, then Papyrus would be bound again. Sans was playing a dangerous game. He needed to think of something.

  Another crack of a tentacle through the air, wild and swinging, Gaster grunting in frustration, and another dodge, Sans holding his pose this time in a gesture of infuriation. “whoa, hey. you look kinda pissed! i would be too, if my old assistant showed up and made me look like a total moron.” Papyrus could see this one and squashed his fist to his mouth, stifling his gasps of horror. He noticed one of the fine, errant tendrils behind Sans splitting and melting until it formed a small puddle beside his foot. Papyrus wanted to shout, but the lower part of his mind responsible for his own survival quelled that urge. _He needed to think of something_.

  “look, i get that you’re butthurt, but--”

  Sans stopped, pips of his eyes shaking, pricks of white that only called attention to the miasma of black around them, in him. A long, thick tendril was wrapped around his left leg, viscous and impossible, and he noted the fact that it came from behind. From a similar puddle that took down Papyrus, who was chomping on his own fist in frustration. It curled and twisted, warm and oddly tender, between the bones of his leg, and tugged at the joints, forcing him to his knees. He was aware of the fact he was shouting. Cursing, probably. Throwing in a few yells for good measure.

  Gaster stormed forward, not checking on his captive, finally closing the gap, gasping and rapturous. Finally. God, quiet at last. He gripped Sans’ face in both of his palms, the ink of his form staining the snow as he rushed, and stared. Stared and marveled and enjoyed. He thought of the life he was going to lead. The things he was going to do. Papyrus, slowly advanced, nine feet away, Gaster’s back to him. Papyrus took note of every crunch of the snow under his feet, every crack of ice, every howl of wind, ever snap of twig. He was not a small man, he had never needed to be stealthy. He took deathly care, as if he would fall through the Earth if he stumbled.

  “Finally,” Gaster shouted, his grip painful, his face feet away. “Finally, God, you’re infuriating. You waste of potential! You would strut around, lazy and casual and always, always laughing, with your magic and your puns and your fucking voice! I admired you, and I think a part of me still does, because I tried to spare you but you wouldn’t let me. And the worst part?” Gaster tightened his grip, Sans choking out a strained noise as he felt his skull bend under the clamps of Gaster’s hands, too shocked to do anything, seconds away from death. Papyrus was behind him, within reaching distance, with murder in his eyes. “You’re a hypocrite. Always talking about self-defence when we both know, under the right circumstances, you would hunt and kill the child just as I did. But you know what?” Gaster dipped closer still until their foreheads clacked together, a macabre mockery of affection, his voice low and husky. “At least I had the decency to _enjoy it!_ " Sans felt the bones of his face finally give under the horrendous pressure, felt a crack form under his left eye socket, a fissure that drew in gasping pain. “God, you’re so alive!”

  Sans took his chance.

  Throwing himself forward in suicidal abandon, Sans unclasped his jaw, setting loose a maw of ragged, overgrown teeth, sharp and pointed like broken stone, and bit, feeling his eyes well up from the pain, tasting the bitterness of Gaster’s ‘flesh’ as he tore at his chest, jaw and bone and sinew, snaps and viscous fluid. The pain, the waves that would travel between his jaw and his leg, was immense, the satisfaction moreso. Gaster’s flesh hung ragged, still being grasped by Sans’ sharp teeth as he pulled and twisted and chewed, finally giving access to the desperate soul underneath, unable to heal under the constant strain. Sans shot a pleading look to Papyrus who was feet behind, aware that the exchange of glances might have been his last. He did not expect Papyrus to act quite so decisively.

  With a roar, the kind he had seen Undyne do, the kind he saw the cool knights in his books perform in battle, the kind that came from the pit of his ribs and terrified him in its alien quality, he grabbed Gaster by the shoulder, spun him around, and tore Frisk’s still-beating soul out of his chest. A single move performed in a fraction of a second, spurred on by hate. It was all he saw in that moment. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. This man had ruined everything, ruined his life, ruined Sans’ life, ruined Frisk’s life, ruined his scarf, ruined him. Made him a murderer. Thin, razor tendrils whipped at his face, his eyes, his body, leaving tiny, unbearable scratches, the thick pools of Gaster’s body spawning move and more hands until they were all grasping, tugging, pleading, begging, dozens upon dozens falling more limp as the soul was separated, the shock shutting down his higher thought process as his plans were broken in front of him. His toy; gentle, sweet and optimistic, always ready with a kind word and a pat on the back, rebelled. His toy; strong, trained and contorted in rage, warping under the strain of three hellish months, had won. The blue magic broke under him and dispersed. It was not needed. Hate. Hate.

  Sans looked at his brother, covered in gore, holding a human soul and dead behind the eyes, and was dumbstruck. “ _holy shit, papyrus._ ”

  Sans rocketed to his feet, Gaster falling into a heap on the ice, shuddering and useless, punctured with a hole that did not close. Sans stepped over him without looking and stumbled forward, ignoring the biting pain in his leg as it shook over the ice. The dead look, the one Sans had become uncomfortably accustomed to, receded.

  “SANS.” He held out the soul, small and warm, with care and reverence, not acknowledging what he had just done. His voice was high and innocent, a complete disconnect from the figure he cut. “I FIXED IT.”

  “y-yeah.” Sans looked to Gaster, to the hole in his body, Papyrus doing with brute force what he could not do with magical dexterity, mouth dry. “really fixed the hell out of him. i just wanted you to distract him, or... i dunno, i didn’t think you’d be the one to... that you could just tear out his... i mean, holy shit.” Something great and terrible had just unfolded in front of Sans’ eyes, the sight burned into his consciousness forever. His drunken confession at a bar had led to his brother losing himself in totality.

  “YOUR EYE, A-AND YOUR MOUTH, YOU OPENED IT! ARE YOU HURT?”

  Sans felt the slime drip from between his teeth, chunky, like pus from an abscess. It tasted rancid. “yeah, yeah, i’m good. never want to do that again, but i’m ok. hurts a bunch.”

  They both stood there, looking at each other, united in their regrets and awareness of the things around them, the atmosphere dense with unsaid questions, the beginnings of a raucous argument neither of them had the strength for, not now. They both looked to Gaster, his extra hands dissolved, and he was writhing on the ground, desperately trying to prop himself up and failing, the weakness too much to bear. It was pitiful. Sans looked to him with contempt, a mockery of the man he once knew, a grim, soulless imitation. Papyrus felt his shoulders sink in relief as he felt a twinge of pity, tiny, cold, but present. He wanted to be Good. To be kind. To help. And the day he could not feel pity for another, the day he forfeited all he held was the day he ended it all. That day was closer to him than he could have ever anticipated. He felt Frisk’s warm, pulsing soul in his hand, swaying gently. Papyrus prodded it softly with his finger and it bobbed in his palm, like a bottle filled with air drifting in the ocean. “WHEN DO THEY RESET? I HAVE... I HAVE A LOT OF MAKING UP TO DO.”

  “when this is done. you gotta claim the soul first.”

  Papyrus shook his head, agog, stepping closer until Sans could lean on him to compensate for his leg. “WHAT? NO.”

  “there’s a way to finish this. permanently. but once a reset hits that’s it. no going back. i’ll do it, if it’ll make you feel better, but it’s gotta be done. you take their soul, they can't reset, we do our thing then let them go.”

  Papyrus paused. “WILL IT HELP FRISK IN THE LONG RUN?”

  “it’ll help all of us in the long run."

  With a deep intake of breath and a glance to Frisk’s pale, iced corpse, Papyrus steadied himself. A tear hit his cheek but his voice remained steady, resolute, resigned. “THEN I WILL DO IT. I OWE THEM THAT MUCH.”

  Sans let out a sigh of relief, long and shaky, feeling the air leave him in a hot rush. He would have done it, though he still did not relish the prospect. It was a responsibility, one he was not sure he could handle. With a shudder, Papyrus poked at the soul again, unsure. Was there a cheat code of some kind? An incantation that you had to recite to yourself, a prayer? How does one claim a soul, exactly?

  “... SANS? HOW DO I TAKE FRISK’S S--”

  Reacting to his intent, the heart burrowed its way into his ribcage, under his shirt, under his bone, and sat just underneath his own, warm and vibrant and powerful, above all, powerful. He felt a wash of emotion hit him, raucous and free, and he felt better, he felt so much better, great, wonderful, like he was enjoying a dumb TV show with Sans, cooking with Undyne, like he had found a brand new book to pour over, light and carefree, happy, so, so happy. He was swaying vacantly, noise leaving his throat, giggles. He felt like he did three months ago, playing with the puzzles, seeing Frisk, his cool new bestie for the first time, delighting in the dumb jokes Sans would tell--

  “papyrus.”

  --Japes and jokes and games, genuine in their enjoyment, how they meant so much to him, wonderful expressions of friendship, a treasured aspect of his life he had been lacking for far too long, warmth sitting in his bosom like bubbles, rising and dancing in him--

  “ _papyrus_.”

  --Scarves, that reeked of fabric softener, frayed at the edges but loved beyond belief, beyond all. Idle daydreams about the first date he would have (the first of many as he was cool, popular and attractive). The lovely meals he would make for everyone. There were few dark thoughts, then, and the little ones that would prickle in his mind could be quelled easily. He was kind. He was gentle. He was smart. He was deserving of love, even if he himself occasionally thought otherwise--

  Sans gave him a solid thud on the shoulder, his fist balled and shaking. “ **papyrus**.”

  Papyrus finally snapped out of it, confused. He was doubled over, fat tears on his cheeks, hands clenched around Sans’ shoulders, head facing the ground, and he did not remember doing so. He righted himself slowly, confused. “WHAT JUST HAPPENED?”

  “you took their soul, like i said. and you just freaked out. lost your shit, you started laughing and laughing. clamped your hands on my shoulders.”

  “THAT FELT...” Papyrus scrunched his face, trying to process the new sensations, the euphoria gone. “THAT WAS STRANGE. HOW LONG WAS I OUT OF IT?”

  Sans gave him a pat on the hand, slow and wary. “five minutes, give or take.”

  “FIVE MINUTES?”

  "y-yeah, you were really uh, having a moment. testament to the power of human souls, right? heh.”

  Papyrus finally unclasped himself, slow and measured, aware of his new strength. He called out to Frisk in his mind, as if they would answer him and make everything better. They did not. He felt the power, ripples of it work his way down, up and through his body, its source right next to his own fatigued soul.

  “you see that tree? fuck it up.”

  Papyrus looked to the large birch feet away from them, old and weathered, the snow sitting on its already white bark. He looked to Sans, confused. “WHY?”

  “trust me. i’d do it, but i don’t have the physical strength, y’know? i could try lasering it with my blasters but it would bring down the whole thing. the tree’s gotta be alive, this is important.”

  The pile near their feet, sludge and spite and pride, finally gathered the strength to choke out a word. “No.”

  Sans did not bother looking down. “brought this on yourself, doc.”

  Papyrus walked over to the tree, feet away, feeling the bark under his palms as he popped his hand on it. He was not sure why he did. Perhaps it was to ward off thoughts of that night, when he had lost himself and acted in anger, motivated by rage, at his most dangerous. This was more calm, purposeful. He summoned a femur, holding it in both hands, remembering the weapons training, and took great care to hold it correctly. He glanced at Sans for confirmation, to secure his course of action. Sans looked him up and down, then nodded grimly. With a hefty swing, a preclusion to a true assault, he hit the tree, the impact ringing up his arms. The gash across it was deep and enormous. His jaw hung open and he turned back to Sans, dumbfounded.

  “yeah, there’s... there’s a reason monsters get jacked up on these things.”

  “ONE SWING. I JUST DID IN ONE SWING WHAT TOOK ME DOZENS BY MYSELF.”

  Sans looked to the side, head dipped, remembering that night. “yeah, i know.”

  Another silence, the creak of bark the only thing between them, punctured by Gaster’s rasps.

  “we gotta get the shrapnel out, pap. we gotta end this.”

  Papyrus thought of the sacrifices he had made, the things he had done to get to this point. He didn’t want to give that up, to have it all be in vain. “I’VE BEEN... ABLE TO TAKE SOME OF GASTER’S POWER. I CAN MAKE YOU FORGET AGAIN, I THINK. WHAT’S THE POINT IN REMOVING IT.”

  Sans voice quietened, his knowledge weighing his head down. “i don’t think you can.”

  “WHAT? OF COURSE I CAN! IT’LL BE MY WAY OF APOLOGIZING FOR DRAGGING YOU INTO THIS!”

  “no. you and him are... you took too much. we took too much. we don’t need the shrapnel, and if i were to guess, we didn’t need it for a while. we’re both aware now, dude. we’re both in this. and i don’t think you can take that away now. we’re so entrenched in this bullshit that i don’t think we can ever forget again. i think. i'm gonna be honest, i'm making educated guesses but, uh... the balance is tipped in our favor. it would be like _him_ forgetting, y'know?”

  Papyrus brought his hand to his mouth, breath quickened. “OH. OH, SANS, I’M-- I’M SO SORRY. ALL THIS EFFORT TO KEEP YOU HAPPY AND I’VE, I’VE UNDONE, OH GOD. He had dropped to his knees, dignity long since discarded, drenched in blood and snow and the thick blackness of Gaster’s body. “I’M AN ABOMINATION. I’M JUST LIKE HIM.”

  “no, you ain’t. i didn’t want you to do any of that. i didn’t want you to--”

  Sans looked to Papyrus, who was now weeping openly, and could not bring himself to finish that thought, not now. He sighed, getting back to the task at hand. “i thought of this when gaster was gonna crack my skull like an egg, but he said something about being ‘alive’. ‘cause he’s some... god, i don’t even know.”

  “A PARASITE,” Papyrus wept.

  “yeah, yeah, that’s a good description.” Sans kept his voice low, soothing. “when i yanked my shrapnel out, it came back. but that’s because i just blew it up. what do parasites need?”

  Papyrus rubbed the snot from his nose, the tears from his eyes. “I DON’T KNOW.”

  Sans looked to the tree, the gash, the thing that was barely alive, but most definitely was. “a host.”

  Realization dawned on Papyrus.

  “it comes back because it doesn’t have a host. because it’s in us, and it’s been there for too long. we can’t forget, we can’t ever, ever forget. but we can get him out of our lives.”

  Another rasp, weaker, pleading. “No. Please. I’m sorry.”

  Sans, despite himself, mumbled an apology. Papyrus waited for the burst of catharsis, of sweet relief, but found it lacking.

  “best to get this over with.” Sans pointed to his left eye, slammed shut under the pain of the crack. “mine’s gonna be easier. i can’t reach in, my hands are too big. you gotta do it.”

  “I CAN’T JUST PULL IT OUT WITH MY FINGERS, IT MIGHT KILL YOU!”

  “yeah, and the homicidal silly-putty over there might resume his rampage when he’s done getting un-fucked, so we need to take this chance. i’m sorry, but it’s gotta be you.”

  With a pitiful noise, Papyrus hoisted himself to his feet, lurching forward to Sans, high on regret and so, so many apologies. Sans forced his eye open, gasping in pain, and motioned for Papyrus to come closer. “i’m gonna turn my voice off so i don’t freak you out... but no matter how bad it looks, yank it out, alright? even if i try to stop you, do it. promise me.”

  Papyrus nodded wearily. “I PROMISE.” With a brief hug, one that surprised Sans in its firmness, Papyrus gently probed Sans’ eye socket and was rewarded with fat tears of pain in return. His fingers hit the metal and Sans pounded his shoulder with his fists instinctively, the lowest part of his mind trying to get the pain to stop, it hurt so much, God almighty how it hurt. Papyrus was mumbling apologies with each wrench of the metal, a long, high slur of ‘I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY.’ The crack under San’s eye shifted and grew in its size, Papyrus’ actions ensuring it snaked to reach the top of his brow. “OH GOD, OH N-NO, I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY--”.

  With a yank it was out, and Sans was alive. Doubled over, heaving, screaming internally, but alive. Gaster was still, prone, curled in the fetal position, but watching. Enjoying the moment. Fuckers. With a gasp, Sans stood back up. Papyrus was shaking his shoulders, the constant stream of apologies finally dying as Sans motioned for him to stop. The sliver of metal was writhing in his hands, fine hair-like protrusions dangling from it. Sans pointed to the tree, Papyrus trotted over, then jammed it inside, the bark splintering into his bones painfully. Sans was still doubled over, shuddering, finding his voice. “you know that metal in your arm? pull on it. can you... can you yank it out?”

  Papyrus gripped the metal delicately and tugged, finding that it did not give, feeling something writhing from his ulna to his elbow, suppressing the urge to gag.

  “I... I CAN FEEL SOMETHING TUGGING. IN MY FOREARM. ALL OF IT.”

  Sans cursed, half-heartedly kicking the ice at his feet. “pap. hold your arm out.”

  Papyrus did, in front of him, pointing.

  “no, dude. to the side.”

  “... WHY?”

  “d’you trust me?”

  Papyrus hesitated. “... I TRUST YOU,” he said, voice burgeoning with sincerity. He meant it, well and truly. He held his arm out to his left, rigid and waiting.

  A blast of magic through the air, blinding and blue, and a brief tinge of pain. Papyrus was no doctor. He did not have a medical degree, and he did not want one. The thought of people with diseases, with their innards exposed and leaking various substances, made him nauseous. But he was pretty sure he had a forearm instead of the charred stump he was currently looking at, the bone split at the edges under the heat.

  Gaster was laughing, clapping weakly.

  “SANS! OH MY GOD, WHAT DID YOU, OH, OH MY GOD, OHHH NO, OH--”

  “now you’ve got every right to be mad--”

  Papyrus was hysterical, bursts of noise that sometimes coalesced into words as he tried to process what was happening, all too much. “OH GOD, OH GOD, OH GOD, YOU BLEW OFF MY, YOU... I--”

  Sans was apologetic, voice heavy with regret. "i know. there was too much of it in you. it had to come off, i'm sorry."

  Papyrus thought of a way to communicate his feelings in a medium Sans would understand. “KNOCK-KNOCK.”

  Sans blinked with his good eye. “what the hell are you-- who’s, who’s there?”

  “NOT ME. I CAN’T KNOCK. BECAUSE YOU JUST BLEW OFF MY FUCKING ARM, SANS.”

  Sans felt his shoulders jump at the curse, at the foreignness of Papyrus’ tones. “alright, alright, get it out of your system...”

  “’GET IT OUT OF MY SYSTEM? _GET IT OUT OF MY SYSTEM?_ MY ARM! I CAN’T-- I LITERALLY-- I FEEL LIKE YOU’RE NOT GRASPING THE FULL SEVERITY OF THIS!”

  “... i like using humor to cope as much as the next guy, but is now really the time for wordplay?”

  “--I AM MISSING MY ARM. I AM SANS A LIMB. I CAN NO LONGER USE MY DOMINANT HAND BECAUSE YOU JUST EXPLODED IT ALL OVER THE FOREST! ‘HEY, I FEEL LIKE HIGH-FIVING PAPYRUS, I’LL JUST GO TRACK DOWN HIS HAND BECAUSE IT’S PROBABLY SAILED STRAIGHT OUT OF THE MOUNTAIN’! AT LEAST SOME PART OF ME FINALLY MADE IT TO THE SURFACE, IT’S JUST A SHAME IT IS NO LONGER ATTACHED, ISN’T IT?!”

  “... better?”

  “NO. I DON’T FEEL ‘BETTER’. IN FACT, I FEEL ABSOLUTELY AWFUL. THIS IS, BY FAR, THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE. AND I HAVE HAD SOME BAD ONES. BUT ‘I WAS LATE FOR WORK, THE WATER HEATER BROKE, AND I HAD A HEADACHE’ DOES NOT COMPARE TO ‘I KILLED A CHILD, TORE OUT SOMEONE’S SOUL WITH MY BARE HANDS AND THEN HAD MY ARM NUKED’. AND IT WAS ALL FOR NOTHING! ALL THAT EFFORT AND YOU’RE STILL SUFFERING. I’VE CHANGED SO MUCH, AND I CAN NEVER GO BACK, AND I... I’M ANGRY! LOOK AT ME, I’M ANGRY! IT’S ALL I KNOW HOW TO BE ANYMORE, AND I HATE IT, I HATE IT, I HATE MYSELF, ALL I DO IS HURT PEOPLE!”

  Sans quietly picked up Papyrus’ shrapnel, long and winding and twisted, and crammed it into the tree. He walked back, measured, feigned relaxation hiding fear. Gaster was writhing, screeching on the ground, thrashing and swearing and laughing, long, mad noises that reminded Papyrus of himself. Sans ignored it. He held his arms out tentatively, every movement of his body sending a spasm of pain through him, which he crushed. “bring it in, pap.”

  “A CUDDLE IS NOT GOING TO HELP, NOT GOING TO... TO--”

  Papyrus crumbled, throwing himself at Sans, clumsily hugging and grasping, desperately, desperately grabbing to comfort, security, hunched over. Sans gripped him tightly in return. He saw Frisk on the ground, broken, dead, charred with magic. Gaster was still thrashing. “You fuckers! You fuckers! I know you hear me! Do you think that you will forget about me? You never, never will! Never! You will live the same day again, again, again, and you will never, never forget me, I promise you, _never!_ When you look at Papyrus you will see me, because that is what I have made you! My philosophy, my outlook and now my powers, if I cannot live _in_ you then I will live _on!_ ”

  They ignored him. Papyrus let Frisk’s soul go, let it float between them, without control, without its power.

  “it... it was the blaster, right? then it was probably quick. really painless. those things are strong, they probably didn’t even realize what--”

  “THEY DID.”

  What did not kill you left you stronger, or so the saying goes. A jolt of optimism for people in dark times, in strife, so they could collect themselves and shrug off their problems, secure in the knowledge that they would be better for it. It was not always the case. Sometimes what didn’t kill you left you weaker. And then what didn’t kill you would roll around again, and you would live, and you would be weaker still, and it would come around again, again and again, each pass taking a piece of you. Papyrus had lurched from breakdown to breakdown to breakdown to breakdown, culminating in the death of his bestie, and though they would come back he could never undo the damage.

  They both waited for the reset, lacking the triumph Papyrus assumed he would feel in victory, and broke the hug.

  “I’M SORRY FOR SHOUTING. FOR SWEARING. FOR GETTING ANGRY. AGAIN.”

  “it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s just... are you... are you alright, pappy?”

  Papyrus laughed once, lowly, flatly, the noise an expression of complete, absolute resignation, defeat. “NO. IT’S BEEN A VERY LONG DAY.”

  Their victory felt quick, and hollow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where Sans is a jackass, Gaster gets handsy and Papyrus tears Gaster's FUCKING SOUL OUT OF HIS CHEST.
> 
> I hope you liked the picture and the bone bros terrible, terrible ordeal!


	41. Wait

  They were both stood awkwardly, taking in what had just happened and doing what they could to nurse the pain of their wounds. Papyrus was surprised, losing his arm did not hurt as much as he thought it would, though on further consideration, it was probably because it had been completely obliterated and thus it was incapable of feeling pain. Sans was not faring so well. He had his hand clamped to his eye, shuddering, the shock finally wearing off and leaving him with a heaving gash that the wind whipped through like crags, gasping and groaning lowly, that compelled him to quietly swear to himself with every little twitch. It was freezing, and burning, and very, very bare. Papyrus went to heal it, having gotten the knack down and presented with an opportunity to finally use it on Sans, but instead awkwardly waved his stump at Sans’ face, which did not do much at all. Oh. Right. That would take a while to get used to.

  Gaster was lying still, prone, like a corpse.

  “you... tryin’ to heal me up? you don’t need to, you’re already pretty drained--”

  His trauma, his stillness, cracked and gave way to burning irritation that had no real target, gesturing clumsily with his right arm. “NO, SANS. I JUST THOUGHT I WOULD WAVE MY BAD ARM LIKE A CONDUCTORS BATON AT YOUR FACE FOR THE FUN OF IT.”

  Sans didn’t retort, just looked down to his feet, now having more context for Papyrus’ moods, his actions. “no need to be a dick about it, god...”

  Papyrus went to bite back in a fit of bile, in misplaced rage, but felt it peter out and die as the syllables left his throat. He thought about what Sans said, in recollections that were not his, memories he had commandeered, that he had slithered his way into and observed. Papyrus looked him in the eye, his good one, and thought, ‘is it worth it? getting angry?’

  And the answer, he swore to himself in that moment, bathed in the softness of Frisk’s soul as it hovered, would always, always be ‘no’. It would have to be. He would not allow himself to warp further.

  Sans looked to Gaster, who was coiled, hole gouged in his chest, and muttered. Papyrus could only make out the tail end.

  “... what a mess. what a friggin’ mess.”

  Papyrus shifted on his feet, sticky, soaked, gore and snow and the tatters of Gaster’s essence (which he was beginning to suspect was not machine washable), well aware of the fact that Sans was probably furious. Rightfully so. Papyrus was upset when he had found out about the resets, the secrets. The lies. Sans had every right to be upset, but the every second of waiting felt like a rib being plucked and twisted away from his chest, hammering home his guilt. He had given Sans happiness, then taken it away in a fit of selfishness, because he was weak, because he could not cope with the load he had given himself, could not cope with the burden he had hoisted on his back without thinking, could not cope with being so desperately, thoroughly alone. He saw, now, why Sans would drink on his bad days. He saw, now, why it seemed like a good idea. It seemed like an excellent idea, actually. It was not as if anything mattered anyway, not on a larger scale. Papyrus certainly didn’t.

  “what the hell, dude?”

  Papyrus shook his head, feeling himself crash back to reality, body swaying to compensate for his injury. He felt uneven. “WHAT’S WRONG?”

  Sans shot him a look that said ‘everything’, but did not bother. “you. you’ve got that look in your eyes.”

  Papyrus stared back blankly, numbly. “WHAT LOOK?”

  “the one you’re sporting right now. the one you tried to hide from me. i always saw it in the resets, but i couldn’t pin down why you... why you were lookin’ like that. now i know why. really cut me out of the loop, huh?” He laughed, meant to set Papyrus at ease, soft and joking as always, but he was surprised at its bitterness.

  Papyrus did not respond, simply swayed in the wind, rigid and empty.

  Sans finally came out with the question he had been plucking up the courage to spew since they had won. “what the hell did he do to you? i remember stuff, but i wasn’t there all the time. he was, right? and now you’re... what happened?”

  Gaster rasped, defeated, limbs tangled as he shuddered in the fetal position. “I helped him. He is stronger, now. Better.”

  “holy shit, nobody asked you.”

  “You do not have to look out for him anymore, you do not have to worry that he will not fight back, that he will die. He will be an excellent Guardsman. He has already killed a Human, after all.”

  Sans loured, the pips of his eyes shaking, his rictus an expression of teeth, the taste of black sinew sitting on his phantom tongue. “damn. you must really want another ass-kicking, huh? i mean, i don’t just dish ‘em out left right and center, but if you’re that insistent--”

  Papyrus did not shake, did not blink, did not waver, could not even find the strength to be furious. It was not worth it. “DON’T BOTHER. IT’S EASIER TO IGNORE IT. AND BY ‘EASIER’ I MEAN ‘EXTREMELY DIFFICULT’, BUT IT’S STILL NOT AS BAD AS INDULGING HIM.”

  “you’re giving me advice like you’re some kind of space-time pro, but you still won’t tell me what happened.”

  Papyrus felt the ripples, the undercurrent of the argument that would boil over any second now, a shouting match in the making. He couldn’t manage it. “I WILL. AFTER THE RESET. NOT RIGHT NOW. PLEASE?”

  Sans looked him down, sighing, resigned, guilt sitting and settling in his bones like lead, the familiar ache he knew one-hundred times over feeling worse in its relative newness. When he woke up that morning, his biggest problem was the fact that his eggs were a little undercooked. “whatever, tell me after. fine.”

  Papyrus’ features softened, slightly, almost impossible to pick up on. “THANK YOU. I WILL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING. I PROMISE YOU.”

  “yeah, i hope so. ‘cause if we fall out then eternity’s gonna feel a hell of a lot longer, isn’t it?”

 

* * *

 

  They sat in silence, doing away with civilized behavior entirely, on the driest part of the dirt they could find, as far away from that tree as they could reasonably travel. Sans could not walk any further on his leg and refused Papyrus’ offer to carry him home, slung on his back. The reddened light from the top of the mountain shone down, visceral, reminding Papyrus unpleasantly of the gore. He could not bear to be near the body. They could, theoretically, take Frisk’s soul and use it to heal each other but it felt... Wrong. The little Papyrus had done was necessary, but it still didn’t sit right with him. Better to leave them to reset in their own time, rather than abusing the power for their own ends then spitting them out. If they did, they would be like Gaster, and that could not be allowed to stand.

  Papyrus brought his right arm up to look at it, his long ulna, gaze settling over the stark white of his radius, their relative smoothness betraying his youth. His carpals were splaying as he flexed his fingers and he could almost see the shimmer of magic that held them together, pulsing and alive, him, not the shell his soul inhabited. Then there were his fingers; long, clawing fingers that would prod and pinch unintentionally in their rigidity with no flesh to allow them softness. He flexed them, watching as they popped and shifted. They did not move as deftly as the fingers on his left hand. He would need to learn to write again, his lovely penmanship ruined, returning to the uneven scribbles of his childhood. He would need to be careful when he opened doors. He would need to do everything one at a time, multitasking now considerably more difficult. He could not close the shower curtain and turn on the faucet, he would close the curtain _then_ turn on the faucet, his whole life slightly slower in its pace, simple tasks extending endlessly in front of him. Casting magic would be more difficult, as he was unable to flex and twitch as he desired. Sans watched him, downcast, slumped against the tree and Papyrus’ body. Tired.

  “i’m sorry, man.”

  “IT HAD TO BE DONE,” he responded plainly, opening and closing his palm, rubbing his fingers together absentmindedly. A question hung between them. “IS IT PERMANENT?”

  Sans shifted, propping himself up on his hand, sliding his leg to ease the pressure, the spasms of pain not abating. “y’know how the shrapnel was always kind of ‘there’? like, as if we had been born with it? well, good news, now it’s not. but uh... yeah, it’s permanent.” Sans pointed shakily to himself. “same with me.”

  Papyrus squinted to get a better look at the socket that Sans had clamped shut, fine streams of tears leaking steadily from it, his good eye bone-dry. “I’M SORRY, I DIDN’T MEAN TO MAKE THE CRACK WORSE.”

  “it’s alright. pap, i literally punched myself straight through the back of the skull and died when i tried pull that off, this is the five-star treatment compared to that. a _smashing_ success.”

  Papyrus’ expression remained locked.

  “d’you... d’you get it? 'cause, like, the crack. in my face.” He thought that would make them both feel better. Apparently not.

  “I GOT IT,” he mumbled, “BUT I DID NOT THINK IT WAS FUNNY.”

  “same as usual, then.”

  “IT FEELS STRANGE TO BE JOKING ABOUT OUR OWN DEATHS. AND I DO NOT THINK YOU CAN FAULT ME FOR BEING UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THAT.”

  “i was joking about a thing that happened to me. i mean, this whole situation sucks, but what can we do? you just gotta laugh at some point, right?”

  Papyrus thought to Gaster, to his experiences, to the things he knew, to the fact he would need to sit Sans down and explain everything, piling on the guilt, the responsibility. It was too much. He could not cope.

  “SANS?”

  “yeah, paps?”

  “I WISH I WAS DEAD, SOMETIMES. EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE," he stated, matter-of-factly, as if he were admitting to spilling wine on the carpet.  "THIS IS ONE OF THOSE TIMES.”

  Sans felt his ribs bottom out, high on shock and clarity, voice just _barely_ staying even. He searched for something to say. “yeah, i thought as much. we just need to keep going, man. it’s all we can do. that‘s what he wants anyway, right?”

  Papyrus blinked back, not quite with it. “EXCUSE ME?”

  “i mean, i can’t speak for dr. fuckface, but he’d probably be laughing his gooey ass off. he’s screwed us over, then when he’s done we give up. nah. ain’t happening. and besides, i thought you were the optimistic one.”

  “SO DID I.” Papyrus settled back onto his position at the tree, watching Frisks’ soul flicker and bounce as they waited. He thought about what Gaster would be saying to him, his time having bestowed on him an evil sixth sense, an outside voice of his own creation that would pick and pull at his flaws. Gaster would want him to die, to give up, having been denied his chance at living. He would want him to end it all, over and over and over, getting drunk to blot out the few moments of horrendous existence he had to put up with, dying again and again, tossing himself into the river, the part he would stare at from his bedroom window in his darkest moments, caving his own skull in against the wooden stairs, one bash, then another, then another until it crunched, to clamp his hands on his own jaw and wrench and split and tear. Papyrus felt something very deep, very rooted, stir in his heart.

  _Spite._

  You know what?

  _You know what?_

   _Fuck that guy!_ Who does he think he is, leeching off of Sans for years, showing up and making cryptic deals, saying and prodding and pushing, flitting around like he was superior, like he was in control, turning down offers of genuine, genuine companionship in lieu of drifting around like a psychopathic blimp.

  Papyrus was going to go home after this, make breakfast, have a shower, put his armor back on and meet Frisk. He would apologize. If they never wanted to see him again then he would understand, he would respect their wishes. He would let his scarf billow in the wind, would stride as he walked and stomp as he moved, would buy every pastry in Snowdin for Frisk if they accepted him into their life after his mistake, would take that sexy figurine out of his closet and admire its legs in defiance, he would wander the forest and admire the old, untouched trees, he would look at silly cat pictures on Undernet, would pick up that book again and read, really, really read, he would sound out the words until something clicked in his mind and he could understand without outside help. He would do that, in his loving home, with his loving brother, with people that loved him for being him, and Gaster could not. He gorged on the sweet, sweet vindication, letting it sit and roll across his tongue, sounding out the syllables of his victory and watching them spark to life in his maw; _venge-ance_ , _re-lief_ , and, like a battle chant in his mind, _vic-tor-y!_ It was Pyrrhic in its nature; his innocence dead, his dreams gone, its cost almost unbearable if he were not The Great Fucking Papyrus, but he _would_ bear it for his brother, because that was what he did. He would be knocked down, broken, crippled, shattered, but he would gather himself up and, piece by piece, _fix it!_ That fact tempered his malice, his spite, into something altogether better.

_Determination._

_Ha-Ha._

  Sans looked at him like he had gone mad, before his features rose in response to Papyrus’ own, weary, but genuine, worry still sinking into his face. “what the hell’s gotten into you?”

  “NOBODY, I AM PLEASED TO REPORT. NOBODY. I AM MYSELF, AND THAT IS ALL I WILL EVER BE.”

  The reset finally, hours after the fight, after the loss, after he felt his soul split, killed them both, though they welcomed it with the renewed desire to live. Gaster used the last of his strength to scream and beg and plead on the wind.

  It would be a long road. It would be difficult. They would have their bad days, as they were flawed, alive, mortal and frail, yet forever, like magic, but they would succeed. Bloodied, traumatized, weary, but thinking, feeling, loving. Papyrus was sure of it. Sans, not so much, though he would not dare to say so.

  But all that would come in time, which they had more than enough of.

  Papyrus was going to talk to Sans, and they would deal with the truth, and the consequences, together. Then they were going to meet Frisk, together. Always, always _together_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus finally gets his shit together in an act of spite, and Sans is just relieved to see him happy. Only a little left, folks!
> 
> Here is the song I was listening to on repeat as I was writing up the last portion of this, which I hope sums up the mood I was going for! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zetq5GsKgBg


	42. Blaster

  Papyrus died. This was excellent news. The reset had finally taken effect.

  It meant Frisk was fine! Frisk was alive! Frisk was probably very, very upset, but they at least had the capacity to be because they weren’t strewn across the ground like very grim confetti. They could stand up, crammed full of mysterious organs, and talk, because they weren’t dead!

  He came to out in the forest, as he normally did, but it was punctuated with a great sense of freedom, serenity. He went to punch the air in triumph, feeling, admittedly, a little odd in his armor, but before he could do so he noticed the way his scarf hung. It was back, thank God, smelling pleasantly of softener and warm against the bones of his neck, but the bulk of it hung like a cape on his left side, different than the way he normally wore it, tucked a little under his pauldron. It covered the entirety of his... Oh. That was right. This was permanent. His arm was gone. The scarf was hung to cover it, the ‘Papyrus’ that had lived up to this point having decided that this was a good idea. He gently swept it away with his right hand to look at it. His arm didn’t hurt at all. There was a perfect fracture, no ragged flecks, no soot-black remnants, no jagged parts that would gouge his sides. It was as if it had been broken for a very, very long time. As if he had been born with it, or perhaps had broken it years ago. Once again the universe had shifted to accommodate him. It made it no less disconcerting. Gingerly, he reached out, the fingers of his right hand feeling awkward in their movements, and poked it. No, it didn’t hurt, definitely. He swept his scarf back to cover it, a stark visual, a constant reminder. He began the walk home, savoring the quiet.

 

* * *

 

  Sans met him at the edge of the forest, having walked up himself. He still looked tired, but here he was, aware. It was good to see him like this, having plucked up enough energy to get dressed, rather than be stuck in such a lethargy that he could not be bothered to wear anything other than boxers.

  “THANK YOU FOR WEARING PANTS IN THIS TIME OF CRISIS.”

  “i feel like you shouldn’t need to thank me for that but whatever, no problem.”

  Sans itched his eye, the faint blue light of early morning casting a soft glow on them both, specs of dust and bark hanging and drifting in the air between them. Sans scratched at his bad eye, fully open, but lacking the white pip that was suspended in his right. The cracks ran just as deep, but were smoother at the edges.

  “HOW BAD IS IT?”

  Sans dipped his head a little in thought, thinking of the best way to frame it. Best to come right out with the information, get it over with.

  “i’m kinda blind in this eye.” He squeezed his good eye shut to test it, seeing how much he could make out. There were no blobs of color, no shapes and it wasn’t black, a tone that had substance, shape, he simply saw nothing. “yeah, can’t see anything. damn. i was kinda putting off testing that.”

  “SANS, I AM SO, SO--”

  “look, look, it’s fine. don’t apologize. i’d rather lose an eye than a limb, so it... ain’t...”

  Papyrus shot him a look, flat and unamused.

  “sorry, i didn’t think. that’s gonna take some getting used to.”

  “YOU DON’T SAY.”

  Sans shifted on his heels, unable to look at the scarf, the way it would dip over the form of Papyrus’ upper arm then taper off into nothing. “look, lets get this out of the way real quick, are you cool with me making jokes about this? ‘cause i have, like, two coping mechanisms, and one of them is laughter. i am floundering, dude. i am floundering.”

  Papyrus brought his hand to his chin to think, bopping it unintentionally. “I AM... NOT SURE, IF I AM BEING HONEST. TRY ONE, THEN GAUGE MY REACTION.”

  “c’mon, you gotta give me something to work with. you can’t just say ‘hey sans, make with the funny’. gotta give me a hand.”

  There was an exceptionally dull silence. Sans looked Papyrus up and down for the tiniest trace of upset.

  “... you’re smiling!”

  “I AM AND I HATE IT!”

  “i’ve got a real eye for this stuff, y’know?”

  Papyrus snickered, then felt bad immediately afterwards, scratching the nape of his neck.

  “TERRIBLE. THAT WAS TERRIBLE. AND NOW I’M TERRIBLE FOR LAUGHING AT IT.”

  “bro, we literally missing pieces of our body because my ex-boss died, went nuts, and started living in us. this situation is fuckin' ridiculous. you’re allowed to laugh.”

  "I KNOW, BUT STILL....”

  The snow was thick, white, plump around them, virgin and untouched, swells and drifts that were soothing to look at for reasons Papyrus couldn’t quite pin down. It rolled and dipped, fine drifts that were there one minute, then would migrate under the wind. There was quiet, but it was not heavy with the constant weight of lies and threads and spools that had to be established and maintained. It was softer, gentle and weary.

  “so, uh.” Sans took his hands out of his pockets to gesticulate, like he were tugging on a thread. “... what the fuck just happened? ‘cause from the way i see it, i’m sat at my post, snoozin’, having a good time, when suddenly i remember a bunch of shit, hear an explosion, then i come up and gaster...”

  Sans made a noise of disgust..

  “... whatever that thing was is standin’ there pawing at you, and the kid’s dead. i mean, i know i said some stuff, but that was just me bullshitting ruthlessly in the face of death. i mean...” He shrugged, voice petering out. “what the hell, papyrus?”

  “PROMISE ME ONE THING BEFORE I BEGIN.”

  “anythin’.”

  Papyrus felt his face become rigid, stern. “THIS STARTED WITH YOU GETTING DRUNK BECAUSE YOU COULD NOT COPE. PROMISE ME THAT, WHEN YOU HEAR ALL OF THIS, YOU WON’T GO AND DO THE SAME THING.”

  Sans hated promises. He did not hesitate. “... i promise. the reason i didn’t do that anymore was ‘cause you were in this with me. no point in you dealing with my drunk ass for all eternity.”

  Papyrus felt his features soften again, but he forced them back into place, feeling his scarf gently flap against himself in the wind, his armor sitting heavily on his bones. “DID YOU DO IT EVERY RESET?”

  “yeah, but always after the kid left, after our shifts were done. it was easier than just, y’know. livin’.”

  Papyrus felt his arm shake, gentle quivers that he could not quell.

  “... b-but you don’t have to worry about that! i didn’t even mean for you to find out at the start of this, if i didn’t talk to frisk, then maybe... god, i could have kept you out of this.”

  “DO NOT FEEL GUILTY. I WOULD DO IT ALL AGAIN.”

  The words fell out of Papyrus’ mouth before he could even think.

  Sans stood there, dumbstruck.

  “... all of it? knowing what you know now, you’d do it all again?”

  Papyrus felt the thoughts coalesce in his mind, the novelty of his honesty drawing dark answers out of him.

  “I WOULD. YOU WERE HAPPY. HONESTLY, GENUINELY HAPPY. AND I AM SORRY TO HAVE TAKEN THAT AWAY FROM YOU.”

  “... even... even frisk--”

  “ _SANS._ ”

  Sans looked the snow beneath his feet, aware that their experience had cost him something far greater than his vision.

  With a deep breath, his expression gentle and guilty, Papyrus told Sans what had happened. He came clean, told Sans all of it. Well, most of it. He tactfully declined to mention Gaster’s comments towards his sexy robot figure, both to preserve his own dignity and to prevent Sans from cringing his face clean off of his body. He declined to mention the bargains and the pleas, the fact he had offered to sleep with Gaster, because he was almost certain Sans would calmly turn away, walk to the Core, take a very deep breath and toss himself in to kick Gaster’s ass across the infinite void. Papyrus noticed something black, impossibly, hideously black, peep out from the pocket of Sans' hoodie. Papyrus recognized it immediately.

  Sans was too busy processing the information to follow his gaze. “papyrus, i’m... god, y-you really...” He cleared his throat, voice dying like the light that hit the shrapnel. “r-really been through the mill, huh? i mean, fuck. that’s... goddamn, i can’t even begin to imagine that.”

  “IT’S FINE. IT SORT OF ALL GELLED TOGETHER AFTER A WHILE!” He chirped, in an attempt to cheer Sans up. It did not work, and the features he could contort, could wrench, did so into a mask of horror, magic crackling in his hands in rage. "AND BESIDES... YOU WERE STUCK WITH HIM FOR LONGER."

Sans shuddered at the invasion of privacy. His old boss had transcended his mortal form to inhabit the infinite, endless black of the void, dripping in magic and time, and had seen Sans jerk-off and scratch his ass. Great. What an excellent use of horrifying cosmic power.  “huh.”

  Papyrus quietly placed his hand on Sans’ shoulder, with no fear, a grounding gesture that reminded them that they were both alive, real, and it helped. Sans was still huffing, shuddering in a rage Papyrus had never seen before, his smile doing little to offset the threatening figure he cast; smart, quick and dangerous. As quickly as it came, it left, Sans mumbling little chants to drag himself back to his normal temper, little bursts of, “chill, cool it, chill...”

  Papyrus rubbed his back soothingly, clumsily, like he had just thrown up. He felt the dip of his spine, the chunkier ribs underneath, baggy hoodies and shirts that would mask his frailness, making him seem larger than he actually was. Sans had an odd presence about him. He could be in the background, even when he was addressing an entire room, sly and quick and joking, but with a look and a twitch he could suddenly command great, unwavering attention. For most people, they were stuck with one option or the other, very rarely both. Papyrus could command great attention too, it seemed, given that he had managed to cow Gaster in the past with nothing more than a look. He would be perfect for the Guard, in that respect, it was good to be quietly intimidating. People would back down immediately.

  Come to think of it, he did not want to be in the Guard anymore. If everything were to continue on as normal, if each day played out in the order they were destined to, then he would probably call up Undyne and withdraw his application. He was far, far too dangerous. In an official capacity, it was an extremely grave insult, to take up the Guard-Captain’s time for so long then not have anything come of it. She would probably come up with an excuse for them to hang out during work hours anyway. He loved her. Not in the romantic sense, the phrase ‘not compatible’ applied on many different levels on that front, but in a platonic way. She was a cool chick. He was a cool dude. Together they were cool people, doing cool things, like cooking and wrestling. Sometimes both at the same time. That was not quite as cool. Quite painful, actually.

  Papyrus noticed he was making little 'shh' noises, the kind Sans used to soothe him with when he would cry. It always made him feel a little better, when he was a child that didn't understand anything. It seemed to be having the same effect.

  "ARE YOU GOING TO JAM THE REST OF THE SHRAPNEL IN THE TREE?"

   "yeah, yeah. that can wait, i gotta get my head together. i mean, damn..."

  Papyrus felt a reassuring hand placed gently over his own. A question sprung to mind.

  “SANS? THAT ANIMAL SKULL GASTER... WELL, THAT I SUMMONED, THE ONES THAT YOU USED... WHAT’S UP WITH THOSE?”

  Sans looked up, a little perplexed, distracted. “what, the blasters? they’re our ‘thing’.”

  “I CAN'T HELP BUT FEEL I WOULD HAVE NOTICED A GIANT DOG SKULL, AND ALSO THE EXPLOSIONS. HOW IS IT OUR 'THING'?”

  Sans took a minute to compose his thoughts, to explain the situation as best he could. “... you remember, years ago, when you were freaking out about your magic in a fit of adolescent rage?”

  Papyrus furrowed his brow, recalling the fond feelings and his own overdramatic declarations. Boy, he was an annoying teenager. “... WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN? IS THIS ABOUT THE TIME I SET THE COUCH ON FIRE?”

  “yeah, that. boy, that freaked me out. what a weird day--”

  “SANS.”

  “right, point, sorry. but anyway, i told you every family’s got a ‘thing’, right? like, an attack, a spell, a little magical quirk. some people get to hover a couple of feet off of the ground. we get lasers. i thought our 'thing' was just the bones. turns out it's not, as i found out.”

  “I WOULD LIKE TO LEARN.”

  Sans hesitated, his trust complete and full, but wary nonetheless. “why?”

  “BECAUSE...” Papyrus felt his voice waver. “IF I LEARN TO CONTROL IT COMPLETELY, THEN I NEVER HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT SETTING IT OFF ACCIDENTALLY. I WON’T KILL ANYONE EVER AGAIN. I'M TOO DANGEROUS TO BE LEFT TO MY OWN DEVICES.”

  “that wasn’t your fault--”

  “IT IS.”

  Sans sighed, knowing any attempt to alleviate his guilt would be shut down. “it’s really difficult, man. only reason i know how to do it is ‘cause, uh... gaster showed me one day, when i was at work.

  Papyrus blinked, gently shaking his head to clear the dust of frost that had settled. “WAIT, REALLY?”

  “yeah, i was on my break, tossin’ bones into the trashcan ‘cause i was bored, and he walked in. i thought he was gonna be super pissed, but he just... made me stand up, do it again, grabbed my fingers and forced ‘em into this weird position.” He demonstrated, locking his fingers, as if his bones had jammed. “then he told me to try again. then i summoned that thing, but they were always jacked up, too few plates in its skull, too many eyes, too few, no teeth, that kind of stuff. i never even fired the damn thing, i would just conjure and he would move my hands, my arms, until it kind of took shape. he would coo at ‘em like they were puppies or something. they’re very, very rare.”

  “... HOW RARE, EXACTLY?”

  “well, me and gaster have the same degree, right? magical studies. i had to memorize tons of stances, postures, and little twitches and stuff, even if i couldn’t do ‘em, i needed to know so i didn’t get a healing spell confused with ‘nuke everything, please’. i had never seen them before that point. ever. in fact, i’m willing to bet me and you are the only two monsters alive that can pull it off.”

  Papyrus breathed in slowly, absorbing the information, and let out a soft “WOWIE,” on the exhale.

  “pretty neat, right? me and gaster named ‘em and everything. they’re in a couple academic textbooks, i bet.”

  “WHAT’S THE SCIENTIFIC NAME FOR THEM? THE SPOOKY... SKULL CANONS, I GUESS?”

  Sans dipped his head, a little embarrassed. “that’s not important. i never told you about them in case you hurt yourself--”

  “IT IS IMPORTANT.”

   Sans shifted awkwardly on his feet, his well-worn sneakers sinking his weight into the thin veneer of ice on the mud below him, making it crackle with every little movement. “it’s pretty dumb.”

  “I DON’T CARE, I NEED TO KNOW. PLEASE. THE MORE CONTROL I HAVE OVER THIS, THE BETTER I’LL FEEL.”

  Sans dipped his skull inwards, towards his shoulders, the fabric of his hoodie bunching up against his rictus. He mumbled something.

  Papyrus scoffed, flexing his broken arm to let his scarf billow dramatically. He actually kind of liked this new look. “NOW I KNOW FOR A FACT THAT YOU’RE CHOOSING TO MUFFLE YOUR VOICE, SO THERE’S NO POINT IN--”

  “’gaster blasters’.”

  Papyrus was blank for a few seconds, letting the statement sink in. His super special rare attack was named after the man that had systematically tortured him, and it just sounded so silly. Against his better judgement, he giggled, the name surprising a noise out of him. “REALLY? REALLY? THE HUGE, HORRIFYING SPECTERS OF DEATH ARE CALLED ‘GASTER BLASTERS’?”

  Papyrus had only ever seen Sans flush a few times in his life, and the novelty of the expression prompted Papyrus to laugh even harder; this huge, terrifying aspect of his life had the most stupid name on the planet.

  “yeah, well, i was grateful, alright? so i thought i’d name ‘em... i mean, looking back at it now, it was kind of a bad idea. the original name was worse.”

  Papyrus was in peals of laughter, but managed to gasp out a response. “HOW? HOW COULD THE ORIGINAL NAME _POSSIBLY BE WORSE?_ ”

  “they were gonna be called ‘finger blasters’. ‘cause i had to move my fingers to get ‘em to show up, y’know? i decided against it.”

  Papyrus stopped, letting the words swim around his mind, swirling them on his palette. Why would that name be an issue?

  “if you don’t get it, i’m not gonna explain--”

  “WAIT. WAIT. IT JUST CLICKED. _OH MY GOD!_ ” Papyrus was in hysterics.

  Sans was barely containing his own laughter, the absurdity of the whole situation, the resets, Gaster, Frisk, finally caving in and making way for catharsis. “you can, uh... see why it would be an issue.”

  “’FINGER BLASTERS’! SANS, AT WHAT POINT DID THAT SEEM LIKE A GOOD IDEA?”

  “yeah, it’s not very threatening, is it? can’t say ‘hey, step off, or you’re gonna get...’” Sans sighed, long and defeated. “... _‘finger blasted’_. unless it was, like, my porn name or something--”

  “WOW, THIS IS AN AVENUE I DO NOT WANT TO TRAVEL DOWN. EVER. EVER EVER.”

  They both looked each other up and down, tears pricking the corner of their eye, and laughed, genuine, genuine mirth, free and easy, loud and ugly, yet so, so wonderful.

  “... HOW DO YOU DO IT?”

  Sans let his eyes scrunch up in a way that clearly showed he was joking. “... what, like, finger blast someone? ‘cause i’m not gonna tell you, that’s gross, dude--”

  “ _NO_ , SANS. MAKE ME LAUGH.”

  He shrugged, tentatively summoning one, huge and still and powerful. “i made ‘em a little less scary, right? i want to help you however i can. making you laugh is one of them.”

  “THANK YOU.”

  “you want to start right now? like, learning? because it’s gonna take longer than it normally would with... well, y’know.”

  “MY RUINED ARM?”

  “your ruined arm.”

  Papyrus looked up the path to the Ruins, where Frisk would tread the same road as they always did, and felt determination in his heart. Gaster had wrenched his magic away from him, corrupted it, forced it. Papyrus was going to grab it back, no matter how long it took, no matter how difficult it was.

  “TEACH ME.”

  Papyrus briefly suspended his routine of trekking to the town for cinnamon buns, put off the luxuries he so richly deserved, his lovely shower and fluffy towels, his warm room, his photo albums. He could not enjoy them until he put this right.

 

* * *

 

  Frisk arrived at their usual time and was greeted by the brothers, the similarity in their faces more apparent than ever. The twin specters, the dog skulls behind them, were floating, jaws clamped shut and pointed upwards in a gesture of solidarity, the ghouls neutered. One was solid, stocky, thick bones that tapered off into a ragged maw. The other was longer, with far too many holes, the bones thinning and tapering haphazardly, malformed. Papyrus did everything in his power to prove that they were not that scary, that he did not mean it, wrenching his entire arm to compensate for his disability, to make the blaster sway comically in the wind. They looked as threatening as wet bread, yet Frisk still shivered.

  “I AM SORRY. I AM SO, SO SORRY. PLEASE LET ME EXPLAIN.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A much needed little burst of comic relief as we wind down. Remember, even when the main story ends, I'll still be doing one-shots and stuff in the same universe, so it's worth subscribing to the series if you are interested! And even when it's done, there's going to be a ~spooky non-canon bonus chapter~! I mean, Gaster did get pretty close to actually swapping with Papyrus, after all...


	43. Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This broke 2,000 kudos! Thank you very much, I appreciate your input, comments and kudos more than you can ever know, and I’m glad you’re enjoying it! So as far as milestone celebrations go, well... That bonus oneshot I promised? It’s a full story now, with multiple chapters and everything! And it’s gonna get fucked up. Like, a lot. [Here you go! ](http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/14140447) Thank you again!

  Papyrus began rambling as soon as Frisk was stood in front of him, their slump belying their fear, even if they knew it was unwarranted, even if they knew Papyrus was too much of a sweetheart to really hurt anyone. He was gesturing to and fro with his hand, his bad arm getting caught in the mass of his cape as he moved it as well. The daylight beamed in starkly from the top of the mountain, leaving them looking washed out even though they were all only feet away. Frisk’s gaze wandered from Sans’ eye to Papyrus’ scarf. Why was he wearing it like that? It was an odd choice.

  Papyrus gestured, and then they saw why his scarf hung like that. Something had happened in the time after their death, and their eyes stung with betrayal, even though the higher parts of their mind knew they had no right to feel this way. The blaster, his, they assumed, swayed uselessly in the air, before it gently began to keel over like an overfed fish. Sans quietly bopped it until it drifted upright again, not interrupting, then held it in place with like it was a dangerous balloon. The other one, the stockier, chunkier skull, remained perfectly still.

  “--AND THEN GASTER SHOWED UP AND YOU KIND OF EXPLODED EVERYWHERE EVEN THOUGH I DIDN’T WANT YOU TO, I REALLY, REALLY DIDN’T, SORRY, AND THEN I TRIED TO PUT YOU BACK TOGETHER BUT I DIDN’T KNOW WHERE EVERYTHING WENT SO I SORT OF IMPROVISED AND IF I’M BEING HONEST I CAN’T REALLY REMEMBER ALL THAT MUCH, I THINK THAT’S BECAUSE OF THE TRAUMA, AND THEN SANS SHOWED UP FOR SOME REASON BECAUSE I THINK I SORT OF BECAME A DEMI-GOD FOR A FEW SECONDS, WHICH ISN’T AS FUN AS IT SOUNDS, AND THEN THERE WAS A BIT OF A KERFUFFLE, AND THEN I THOUGHT ‘I’LL SUMMON MY BIG SPOOKY SKULL TO SHOW YOU IT’S HARMLESS’, AND THEN--”

  Sans and Frisk exchanged a look. Sans let go of Papyrus’ blaster and it awkwardly dropped to the ground, like a stone in water, then began to very, very slowly turn on its side like a car that was missing two of its wheels, carving a circle onto the snow. He stepped forward a little to dodge its clumsy trajectory, letting it spin behind him as he addressed the more pressing situation. Frisk, despite the circumstance, could not look away.

  “pap, you want me to explain it to the kid? you’re kind of, uh... a mess.”

  Papyrus finally took a breath, cutting himself off. He didn’t notice his blaster behind him, but kept up the clicks of his fingers required to keep it conjured. “PLEASE.”

  Sans paused for a moment, hands in his hoodie, dismissing his own canon now that Frisk had gotten the point. “so you know about gaster, right? how he was just... hanging out in us, i guess?”

  Frisk nodded, refusing to speak when their voice was cloyed with tears.

  “so he kind of, uh, ascended to a higher plane of existence by committing, like, hyper-suicide. advanced suicide. he killed himself so badly he became endless.” Sans laughed once, a humorless bark to hide his upset, empathy he could not shift. Papyrus gazed at the ground. “but he wanted to live in papyrus, right? to eat and drink and uh... y’know. other stuff.” His eyes wrenched in disgust, well aware of the implications, but not wanting to spell them out to a child. Stupid jokes were one thing, but that very real threat, that violation, was not something he wanted to lay bare. Papyrus shifted uncomfortably on his feet, embarrassed about the topic at hand. “... but he had to break the barrier, right? so he just pops this rampant murder-boner. gaster did, not papyrus, this is important--”

  Frisk blinked, before guiltily snorting with laughter. A flash of a red cape caught their attention, and they saw that Papyrus was ‘whispering’ something to Sans, which they heard, as he had all the subtlety of a bejewelled foghorn.

  “CAN YOU PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NOT DESCRIBE ANY PART OF THIS HORRIFYING ORDEAL WITH THE PHRASE ‘MURDER-BONER’. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK, SANS.”

  “pap, i made them laugh, so we’re already halfway to getting them to forgive you for ‘explosion-gate’.”

  “WE ARE NOT CALLING IT ‘EXPLOSION-GATE’.”

  “can you think of a name for it, bro?”

  “THAT IS NOT THE PRESSING CONCERN HERE, SANS!”

  Frisk was looking between them patiently, waiting for them to finish, the tears sitting in their eyes leaving them large, and dewy. Papyrus finally took note, withdrawing.

  “if this is upsetting you, i can stop. i’m not really sure how to talk about something this serious without, like... making a joke out of it. i’ve never really known anything else, so...”

  Papyrus stopped, thinking of how much calmer he felt despite the mishap. In the silence, he heard the sound of bone grinding against snow, and he furrowed his brow, perplexed. “IT’S FINE. I THINK FRISK APPRECIATES IT. I DO TOO.” He glanced behind him, before craning his whole body.

  “It’s been doing that for a while,” Frisk admitted, staring at the blaster. It looked so goofy that their fear died away.

  “OH GOD, LOOK AT IT! IT’S GOING TO BURROW A HOLE WITH ITS FACE. STOP THAT! I AM YOUR MASTER, I GUESS, AND I DEMAND YOU STOP!” He clicked his fingers in the way Sans had shown him, over and over and over, to stop it.

  It sped up slightly, pulping the snow underneath.

  “geeze, look at it go.”

  “OH MY GOD, THIS IS THE WORST.”

  Frisk piped up, now more at ease, “Is it supposed to do that?”

  “god no. if that were a real dog i would have shot it.”

  They watched it turn, following it with their eyes, the motions becoming somewhat soothing in their repetition.

  “THIS GRAND GESTURE OF APOLOGY ISN’T GOING AS I INTENDED IT TO.”

  “yeah, you don’t say.”

  Frisk stayed silent once again, feeling the atmosphere become extremely awkward. They were upset. And they knew for a fact they were being unreasonable. But they were still a child that had suffered, and their emotions wavered and lashed out even if they did not want to.

  Sans noticed the way their palms shook, the fat tears in their eyes.

  “look, you’ve stabbed him to death a bunch, can you not just call it quits? i mean, if we’re going by death count alone--”

  Papyrus blustered, truly angry for the first time that day. “SANS!”

  “well it’s true. somebody here has to be the bad guy, and i guess it’s gotta be me. kid, i get that you’re a little freaked out, but it’s not gonna happen again, alright? it was a one off. and you can be as angry as you want, but you gotta keep that fact in mind. you can’t lash out. you won’t lash out.”

  Frisk felt the anger drop out of them, leaving a dullness. It was true. He was right. Papyrus was grinding his teeth, tapping his foot on the solid ground underneath.

  “we’re all thinkin’ it,” he mumbled.

  The air was thicker now, and the soft crunch of snow behind them out of place in the tension. It evaporated as Frisk burst into tears, stormed forward and pulled Papyrus into a crushing hug. Sans let his shoulders slump in relief, feeling guilt prod at his bones, the necessary harshness. Papyrus shimmied off his glove with his fingers, jamming it into the small gap between his scarf and his cuirass for safekeeping, then quietly pet Frisk’s hair in a soothing motion, in the way Sans used to do when he was a child. Up and down, left then right on their scalp, solid bone tracing grounding patterns in their hair. Their sobs turned to hiccups, their hiccups to sniffles and their sniffles to silence as they clung on. Sans didn’t say anything, and Papyrus lost himself in the motions of comfort. After a few minutes they finally looked up, not pulling away. Papyrus kept his voice high, cheerful, in a bid to keep his bestie’s spirits up.

  “TAKE AS LONG AS YOU NEED. THERE’S NO RUSH.” Papyrus plucked his glove from its holdings, then passed it down to Frisk. They looked at it in confusion. “YOU CAN BLOW YOUR NOSE, OR DRY YOUR TEARS. IT WILL HELP. I’M SORRY I DIDN’T BRING ANY TISSUES. I KEEP SOME IN MY DESK, BUT I DIDN’T THINK TO--”

  Frisk blew their nose, gross and wet, cringing at the loudness of the noise. They felt a little better. Papyrus did his best to crush his natural disgust, and pat them on their shoulder with his stump. Sans watched with wide eyes as his brother, the clean-freak who would go ballistic if the house was even in the slightest disarray, took the glove back with no hesitation, holding the sodden garment in his hand. Huh. “BETTER?”

  Frisk felt mortified, wrenching their body back to break the hug, not wanting to embarrass themselves further. They had blubbered like a baby. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “I’M GLAD.”

  Sans picked his gaze back up, keeping his voice soft. “look, kid, i’m sorry for bein’ so tough, but--”

  “It’s fine. You’re right. I don’t have any right to be upset.”

  “i never said that, just... heh, i don’t know what i’m saying. it’s a weird situation.”

  “AGREED.”

  “It is.”

  Papyrus was shuffling on his feet, tugging at his scarf with the few fingers that weren’t occupied with the glove, pulling it in front of him. “SO.”

  “... So? So what?”

  “DO YOU FORGIVE ME? FOR, UH... F-FOR KILLING YOU.”

  Frisk paused, incredulous. “Of course I do? I thought you noticed? You’re my bestie. And from what you’ve told me, it wasn’t even your fault--”

  Papyrus’ voice dropped in volume, truly, this time. “IT WAS. SANS SAID THE SAME THING, BUT IT WAS.”

  Frisk glanced at Sans, who shrugged. It wasn’t casual, as it normally was, but weak and resigned.

  “BUT I’M GOING TO MAKE AMENDS! YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO MOVE FOR SUGARY, UNHEALTHY CONFECTIONS! IF YOU NEED ANY HELP, IF YOU NEED ANY FAVORS, ASK ME! CONSIDER ME YOUR BIG BROTHER, WHO MAY HAVE ACCIDENTALLY MURDERED YOU ONE TIME.”

  Frisk and Sans both balked at the bluntness of the statement, and the boldness of his claim. “Oh my God.”

  “holy shit.”

  “I’LL DO MY BEST, OR MY NAME ISN’T PAPYRUS... SOMETHING! JUST PAPYRUS, I GUESS.”

  Sans quirked his eyebrow, confused. “skeleton.”

  “I NOTICED I AM ONE, SANS. IT IS DIFFICULT NOT TO.”

  Sans was chuckling, now, low and genuine, dousing much needed relief on them all. Papyrus’ blaster was still going. It was very impressive. “no. ‘skeleton’. it’s our surname. damn, you’re like, twenty--”

  “TWENTY-ONE.”

  “--how the hell did you not notice? i’ve told you tons of times.”

  “IT CAN’T BE. THAT’S STUPID. THAT’S INCREDIBLY STUPID.”

  “well, like it or not, it is.”

  “I ADMIRE A JAPE AS MUCH AS THE NEXT PERSON, BUT YOU’RE TAKING THIS TOO FAR.”

  “no, i’m being serious. i thought you knew.”

  Frisk was looking between them both, enjoying this brief little peek into their lives. They were glad the brothers were on the same page. They were glad they were all on the same page. And there was nothing wrong with a little snooping between friends. They kept quiet, and watched.

  “I THOUGHT IT WAS A PLACEHOLDER, NOT OUR REAL NAMES. I MEAN, ‘SKELETON’? ‘SKELETON’?”

  “what? you’ve seen me write my name as ‘skeleton, sans’. i’ve seen you sign stuff as ‘papyrus skeleton’, bro!”

  “I JUST ASSUMED WE DIDN’T HAVE SURNAMES AND WE USED THAT INSTEAD. THAT YOU WANTED TO DISTANCE YOURSELF FROM YOUR ORIGINAL SURNAME, BECAUSE, YOU KNOW, OUR PARENTS ARE KIND OF TERRIBLE--”

  Sans turned to Frisk, to give them a little nod of acknowledgement. “they are.”

  “-- AND IN MY DEFENSE, PEOPLE CALLED YOU ‘DR. SANS’, NOT ‘DR. SKELETON’! YOU CAN’T BLAME ME FOR THINKING THAT IT WAS A FALSE NAME.”

  “’c’mon, ‘dr. skeleton’ makes me sound like a friggin’ super-villain. i just wanted to be called ‘sans’ when i was dicking about in the facilities, doing tests and stuff, so ‘dr sans’ was a middle ground.”

  “MY NAME IS PAPYRUS SKELETON?”

  “it is.”

  “PAPYRUS SKELETON, THE SKELETON.”

  Sans didn’t even bother to hide his laughter, and Frisk was stifling their own. “skeleton doesn’t sound like a word to me anymore. and it could be worse. could be ‘papyrus werewolf, the skeleton’. people wouldn’t know what to think.”

  “IT’S JUST... THAT’S SO LAZY.”

  “i know, right? it’s pretty simple. people know how to spell it. could be worse.”

  “I MEAN, I GUESS IT’S NOT THAT BAD. IT’S JUST... WE, I... OUR SURNAME IS ‘SKELETON’!”

  “could be ‘boner’. papyrus and sans ‘boner’. brace yourself ladies, the boner brothers are here.”

  Papyrus groaned, pinching his nose. “I RETRACT EVERYTHING I JUST SAID, I AM FINE WITH MY NAME.”

  Frisk was fully absorbed into their conversation at that point, their tears dried. They felt at ease. They were happy to simply be. They were glad to be alive.

  “What do we do now?”

  “WE KEEP GOING, AS WE ALWAYS HAVE. IT’S ALL WE CAN DO.”

 

* * *

 

 With no acknowledgement, with no fanfare, Sans jammed the last of the shrapnel into the tree. He did not give it any more attention than was needed.

 

* * *

 

  They walked to town together, in easy, companionable silence. Frisk had an odd look on their face, one Sans couldn’t pin down. Papyrus was walking ahead, his long legs carrying him further naturally, the blaster finally dissolving as the distance between Papyrus and it became too much, and he could no longer sustain its magic. He would not do that often, he thought. He could not disassociate it with the terrible event it had wrought, could not unglue it in his mind.

  “what’s up with you? well, bad question. what’s up with you right now?”

  Frisk chose their words carefully. “I’m not sure about this, and I don’t want to get your hopes up... But... Every reset happens outside of my control. But I don’t think it’s at random. But every time, I think I get a tiny bit further. Just a little.”

  Sans smiled a little with his eyes, refusing to hope without adequate reason. “oh, huh. what makes you say that?”

  Papyrus was in front, loudly singing along to a jingle that had gotten stuck in his head.

  “I remember seeing a castle.”

  Sans and Papyrus had gotten so caught up in their own problems they hadn't even noticed.

  Oh, Sans really smiled then.

 

* * *

 

  Papyrus dipped into the general store out of principle, Sans and Frisk following along to see how he got on. With practiced ease, he walked to the counter, greeted the owner cheerfully, and asked for the freshest cinnamon bunny she had. Frisk was waiting outside, as there was not enough space for all of them. It was a small shop, wooden surfaces that were polished, the smell of baked goods saturating the air, with barely enough room for windows. She would always compensate by lighting as many candles as she could to ward off darkness in the daytime, that left everyone in a soft yellow glow, warm, rather than sickly. She glanced at Papyrus’ arm, and Sans’ eye.

  “Now I don’t mean to pry, and if I’m oversteppin’ the mark feel free to shut me down,” she said, voice brimming with caution, “but what happened to you two? Must have been somethin’ pretty big. I mean, I know you must have gotten used to it by now, since you’ve had them for so long, but my curiosity’s killin’ me.”

  Sans watched as she bent over to get the roll, and answered first as Papyrus tried to think of a story. “tragic high-fiving accident. he really went for it, his arm came clean off and smacked me so hard in the face it blinded me. real insensitive, maureen. real insensitive.”

  Papyrus and the shop-keep looked at each other. Papyrus suppressed a dark chuckle, feeling bad for her.

  “Like I said, I didn’t mean to offend--”

  “I LOST IT AFTER I FELL OFF A TREE AS A CHILD. IT WAS SO BADLY BROKEN, IT WAS JUST EASIER TO REMOVE IT.” He nodded to Sans. “SANS GOT CAUGHT IN AN EXPLOSION, AN INDUSTRIAL ACCIDENT.”

  Sans caught on, a little impressed. “yeah, that. it’s really not that interesting.”

  She rested her arms on the counter, mulling it over. “Wow, that happened separately? You’re pretty unlucky.”

  “IT’S REALLY NOT THAT BAD,” he chirped. “YOU GET USED TO IT, I THINK.”

 

* * *

 

 

  Frisk left soon after, cinnamon roll in a little paper bag that swung at their side as they walked. Papyrus heard his doorbell ring, and by the time he stood up, walked over, fumbled awkwardly with the latch and opened it, the person that had rang it was gone. There was a small brown bag, with a note taped to it.

  ‘Every time I see that you’re happy, I’ll give you a cinnamon bunny before I leave, so that you will get used to it and be happy all the time. It’s positive reinforcement!’

  Papyrus choked back a tear, smiling softly. Sans peeped his head over the banister of the stairs, having come out of his room, missing the context.

  “oh sweet, that a cinnamon bunny? can i have it?”

  “NO SANS, YOU CAN’T EAT IT. IT’S AN EXTREMELY IMPORTANT CINNAMON BUNNY.”

  “is it dusted in gold or something? you don’t even like them--”

  Papyrus crammed it in his mouth.

  “how does it taste?”

  “LIKE CINNAMON.”

  “so you hate it?”

  “I DO.”

  “but you’re still eating it.”

  “I AM. I ALWAYS WILL.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close to being done!


	44. Life

Every morning Papyrus would jog back home, take a long, deserved shower, with fancy soaps that he couldn’t pronounce, cover himself with a fresh, warm towel straight out of the dryer, then would sit down and _be_ for a while. He would be sat on the couch, hands on his knees, and would breathe. He could be alone with his own thoughts, without needing to constantly defend himself from attacks on his privacy, without having a critical little voice in his mind, without needing to worry what would happen next to _who_ and _why_ and  _when_ , he could just sit there. And do nothing. And think nothing. Just a tall skeleton. With his fluffy towel. In his warm living room. He once took a catnap, but was snapped out of it as Sans shouted for him to ‘put some clothes on, this ain’t a sauna’, and thus decided that it was not a good idea, swearing that all post-shower naps would be confined to his bedroom. They had sworn to live as normally as they could.

 

* * *

 

  Undyne would phone and talk about the lessons she was planning for the next day (making something called an ‘extreme lasagna’), a day that would probably never come, but Papyrus would laugh and enjoy himself anyway, becoming accustomed the same lilts and tones in her throaty voice. Eventually he lost the words entirely, having heard them countless times, but he would smile and nod and listen, until she would finish, always ending the conversation in the same way.

  “I know you’re bummed out about havin’ to wait so long, y’know, to join the Guard,” she said, the tinniness of the receiver giving her voice a colder tone that was normal, “but all this trainin’ is really gonna get you far! You’re one hell of a cook! Remember, when times get tough, you gotta stand up and say: ‘everything’s gonna be daijoubu’!”

  Papyrus would always respond, in the same way, with the same tone, with the same little dip in the middle that signified he needed a drink of water. “I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, BUT I FEEL LIKE MY LIFE IS A WORSE EXPERIENCE FOR HAVING HEARD YOU SAY IT.”

  “Oh my God, it’s like you haven’t been watching the DVD’s I’ve been giving you! It’s an old human custom, great warriors say it all the time! And schoolgirls when they talk to senpai, weirdly.”

  “WHAT’S A SENPAI?”

  “That’s it. That’s it. Go dig out the bag I gave you, I’m tellin’ you what order to watch them in!”

  Papyrus was laughing. This part was new to him. “AREN’T YOU TAKING THIS A LITTLE TOO SERIOUSLY?”

  “Well, yeah, duh! I’m not gonna give you something to bone up on then watch you half-ass it! Consider this an order as Guard-Captain, civilian. You’re gonna go watch cute girls fight over senpai instead of each other, for some reason. But then they put on really skimpy outfits to fight bad guys, and jump around a lot, so it kinda evens out.”

  Papyrus laughed, letting his voice dip into a gentle, mocking tone. He swirled the fabric of his scarf absentmindedly with his broken arm, carving little patterns that would vanish when he shifted. Sans was pottering around in the kitchen, making dinner as Papyrus had made breakfast that morning. “I THINK I SEE THE REASON WHY YOU WATCH THESE SHOWS.”

  “They’re documentaries! Don’t judge me for expanding my horizons, Papyrus! Now get crackin’!”

  “FINE, FINE. GIVE ME A MINUTE, I’LL NEED TO FREE UP MY HAND.”

  “Yeah! You’re not gonna regret this! Gimmie twenty push-ups while you’re at it!”

  Papyrus rolled his eyes with great affection, gently placing the phone down so as not to scrape the receiver unpleasantly against its surface, and set off to his room. He ducked down, resting his face against the rug as leverage, and pulled a plastic bag out from underneath his bed, the surface peppered with holes as the DVDs inside strained against the surface. He righted himself, picked up the bag, then trotted back down the stairs, plonking the bag on the couch next to the phone. With no fanfare he lay himself flat against the floor and began doing push-ups, keeping his bad arm tucked as a reminder to himself not to use it. Sans peeped his head out of the kitchen.

  “what are you doin’?”

  Three in. Papyrus held his pose as he looked up to respond. “PUSH-UPS.”

  Sans gazed back flatly. “alright, my bad, that was obvious. why?”

  One dip of the arm, one push back. He was up to four now, the task easy, taking his time to give Sans the attention he deserved. “UNDYNE TOLD ME TO, SO HERE I AM!”

  “she wanted you to do push-ups?”

  In, out, hold. Five, now. “SHE DID.”

  “why?”

  “I’M NOT SURE. I DON’T MIND, I DO THESE ALL THE TIME ANYWAY.”

  Sans looked as Papyrus held his body-weight up casually with one arm, with no strain. He was a little envious, though he would not dream of saying so, as even the thought of push-ups made him want to take a very long nap. “isn’t that difficult to hold?”

  Six. Seven. Eight. “NOT ALL OF US HAVE LIMP SPAGHETTI NOODLES FOR ARMS, SANS.”

  “oh, that’s it. i’m burnin’ your portion now. i’m gonna be eatin’ some real nice casserole, and you’re gonna get a big plate of carbon.”

  Papyrus laughed, his which shook his arm. “STOP THAT, I NEED TO GET BACK TO UNDYNE!”

  “yeah, i gotta plate up my part and crank the heat up to ‘incinerate’ anyway. you want it charred or scorched?”

  “OOH, SCORCHED PLEASE. IF I CAN RECOGNIZE ANY PART OF IT, IF I CAN IDENTIFY ANY KIND OF MEAT OR VEGETABLE, THEN IT’S NOT DONE ENOUGH.”

  Sans was chuckling back, his voice echoing from the kitchen as he walked back in, sneakers squeaking against the floor. “noted.”

  Papyrus finished up, bracing his hand underneath him, closer to the center of his body to compensate. He would get into the habit of doing push-ups, until his right arm felt as natural as his left once did. He let out a puff of air, sat down, and brought the receiver to his face once again, his breath quickened.

  Undyne was quiet, having zoned out as she waited. She heard the sound of his breathing before he spoke, and laughed. “Oh my God, did you actually do push-ups?!”

  Papyrus puffed out his chest. He didn’t want to join the Guard anymore, that was true, but he was still in shape. He hadn’t quite plucked up the courage to tell Undyne anyway, no doubt she would be upset, having devoted so much time to him. She had been ruthless in her training after all, even if the majority of it seemed to involve cooking of some kind.

  “I was kiddin’! I’m not gonna just order you to do that out of nowhere, c’mon man! You’re such a goober.”

  Papyrus blustered, his pride deflating. “NO I DIDN’T!”

  “You did!”

  “MAYBE I'M BREATHING LIKE THIS BECAUSE I HAVE ASTHMA!”

  “Can skeletons even get asthma?”

  There was a silence between them. Sans had, once again, peeped his head out of the kitchen to listen in, confused.

  “... NO,” he admitted.

  She snorted. “Anyway, have a root through ‘em! Most of my collection in in there, I found some of them at the dump. Some were gifts from Alphys.”

  “ _OOH_ , I CAN FEEL THE ROMANTIC TENSION FROM HERE!”

  It was Undyne’s turn to bluster. She coughed, delightfully embarrassed, and swiftly got them both back on track. “Get lookin’!”  
  
  Papyrus pulled one out of the bag. The cover was clearly printed out and hastily shoved in. He assumed it had been pirated. A gaggle of attractive women (Human, he assumed, although their eyes were far, far larger than was normal. They could have also been some kind of sexy alien.) were posing on the front, all in different outfits and with ludicrous hair-styles.

  “... TOKYO KISSY CUTIE?”

  “Watch that first. It’s a really good show, shows that fightin’ evil isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, y’know?”

  He narrowed his eyes, looking at the beasts behind them, large and squid-like and a little... _Grabby_.

  “... WHAT IS THAT SQUID ON THE COVER GOING TO DO TO THOSE GIRLS?”

  “It advances the plot, it’s fine! Next!”

  He shrugged, putting it to the side. He plunged his hand back into the bag, sifting blindly. God, she had dozens of these. He pulled one out, then examined its cover, cheeks reddening a little. He felt that, perhaps, this inclusion was not intentional. There was a ‘property of Dr. Alphys’ sticker on the back.

  “’... ‘BIBLE BLACK’?”

  “ **Oh God, don’t watch that one!!** ” 

 

* * *

 

  It had been a few days. Acclimatization had been slow, but steady. Sans was heading out to go talk to Frisk before they left, as he always did, but he peeped his head into Papyrus’ room to say goodbye. Papyrus was sat on his bed, hand on his knee, looking one of his figurines. That robot dude, apparently, the box with the (admittedly) hot legs. Papyrus wasn’t even ogling, but staring at it as if psyching someone out before a big game, or trying to spot something on the horizon, with determination, with great, unquestioning focus. Nothing was actually _happening_ , but Sans still felt as if he should not be there, and thus decided to leave him to it. He gripped the door handle, and began to gently close it, but it creaked as it moved.

  Papyrus yelped, surprised, swinging around to look at Sans who was hovering at the door. “DO YOU MIND? I’M HAVING A MOMENT OF GREAT TRIUMPH.”

  “is that what people are callin’ it now?”

  “WHAT? THAT’S-- _NO!_ YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND. THESE DELIGHTFUL GAMS REPRESENT A MOMENT OF PERSONAL GROWTH.”

  Sans winced. “ugh, dude. i didn’t want to know--”

  “OH GOD, NOT _LITERALLY_ , NOT THE THING YOU’RE THINKING--” Papyrus held his head in his hand, mortified. Sans chuckled good-naturedly, finding the humor in it, still perplexed. “LOOK, ALRIGHT, I COULD HAVE CHOSEN MY WORDS BETTER, BUT TRUST ME, THIS IS A VERY BIG DEAL.”

  “if you say so. i’m gonna shut the door anyway. have fun doin’ whatever the hell this is.”

  “THANK YOU! I WILL!”

  The door clicked shut, and Papyrus resumed. It really was a moment of personal triumph, he could ogle all the pretty things he wanted without the fear that somebody would be peeping and judging and _enjoying_. It would stay at ogling, for now. Baby steps.

  Sans returned an hour later, holding a brown paper bag. Papyrus was reading when he came back.

  “yo, the kid wanted me to give you this.”

  Papyrus trilled delightedly, pulling the confection out out of the bag.

  There was a bite out of it.

  A Sans-sized bite.

  “might have been poison. i was testing it. savin’ your life, pap.”

  Papyrus sighed. “WOULD YOU LIKE THE CINNAMON BUNNY?”

  “oh damn, if you’re offering...”

 

* * *

 

  And then there were the times where Frisk was not Frisk, and was someone entirely different, who would shamble their way out of the Ruins, covered in muck and grime and dust that would not shift. But the brothers dealt with them, afraid and with great trepidation, but a united front against the mimic. The brothers did not _hurt_ them, of course. They did not need to. Both of their attacks were blue, after all.

  With the two of them it was not a difficult task to restrain Not-Frisk, to pin them to the ground with crushing gravity, that ebbed and swept and flowed around them. Papyrus would always quietly apologize, worried that somehow, no matter how improbable, he would summon a perfect blaster and shoot them all over again. He would unclasp his scarf from around his neck, his shoulders, his fingers working more deftly now, and would use it to tie Not-Frisk’s hands behind their back as Sans would cautiously prise the knife from them. Then they would 'march them to the castle, to let Asgore claim their soul’. That is to say, they would lock them in the shed until the reset hit, standing guard until it did.  
  
  The most difficult part was always the walk to their home, as townspeople would poke their heads out to cheer. They skeletons had captured a Human that was covered in dust, and the freedom of Monster-kind assured. They couldn’t look miserable. It just didn’t fit. So they had to act.

  Papyrus would try his best, hand clenched around Not-Frisks shoulder to prevent them from running off, from killing again. “YEP. CAPTURED A HUMAN. GO, US!”

  Sans was always less enthusiastic. “yeah, uh. woo.”

  “WOO!”

  “woo.”

  “WE’RE SO GOOD AT THIS!”

  “uh-huh.”

  “TAKING THEM TO THE CASTLE, BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT WE ARE MEANT TO DO! BECAUSE WE ARE SENTRIES! LOOKING OUT FOR A HUMAN! THAT WE HAVE CAUGHT! SO WE CAN GET TO THE SURFACE--”

  “pap, you’re rambling.”

  Not-Frisk loured at them, with no hint of warmth.

  Papyrus dipped closer to Sans, lowered his voice as the whole town looked on. “I KNOW, I ALWAYS GET A LITTLE NERVOUS DOING THIS.”

  They would march the little human to the outskirts of town, until the joyful crowds dispersed, a process that usually took half an hour, then Sans would hoist the child up onto Papyrus’ shoulder. He would grip them like a sack of flour, and they would sprint back to their shed. Though perhaps ‘sprint’ is not the correct term to use; Papyrus would sprint, Sans would jog, then walk, then jog, then walk, arriving soon after. Papyrus would gently guide Not-Frisk into the shed, taking great, great care not to approach their face as they would always bite, and try to kick their way out. He tried to lighten their spirits, as they were still a child.

  “STABBY CHILDREN ARE PUT IN THE ‘TIME-OUT SHED’!”

  “we need to come up with a better name for this thing,” Sans wheezed.

  There was a thick panel of wood separating the brothers from them, and the inside was far better suited to accommodate a person. The dog bowl was swapped out for tins of food, there was a small, portable heater with blankets and cushions dotted around and a stack of board games near the door, just in case they were overwhelmed with the sudden urge to play Scrabble. There were piles of books in neat rows, fantastical tomes about knights and wizards and dragons that needed slaying, and textbooks about magic they wouldn’t have the faintest chance of understanding, dense and dry like chipboard.

  “THERE’S A SMALL BELL,” Papyrus said, his voice muffled through the wood. “IF YOU NEED ANYTHING, FOOD, WATER, A BATHROOM BREAK, DON’T HESITATE TO RING! THIS SHOULD BE AS COMFORTABLE AS POSSIBLE FOR YOU! IT’S LIKE HANGING OUT, BUT YOU CAN’T LEAVE.”

  “so it’s a prison, then.”

  “BUT A FRIENDLY PRISON! FOR FRIENDS!”

  There was a silence, before they heard the faint trill of a bell from the inside. Sans moved aside, readying his magic. Papyrus took a deep breath, then unlocked the door, glad he had discarded his previous tactic of leaving pleading notes. He clicked the door open a few inches and a small hand jutted out, a fork being their weapon of choice. They lunged for Papyrus, who shut the door again.

  “DON’T STAB ME YOU PRECOCIOUS LITTLE SCAMP, THAT’S RUDE!”

  Sans could not find any lighthearted comments to make, as none of them would be genuine. They heard scraping. “they’re trying to chew through the wood.”

  “STOP THAT! SANS, WHERE’S THE SPRAY BOTTLE, THEY’RE GETTING SPRITZED UNTIL THEY STOP TRYING TO KILL PEOPLE.”

 

* * *

 

  “ANOTHER BAD DAY?”

  “yeah. yeah, it is.”

  Sans was in his room with his back to his door, slumped, half dressed. Papyrus was on the other side. It had been weeks now, and whilst they were not as common as they once were they were still both capable of having their bad days. Papyrus sat himself down, resting his back to the door in turn, to make them more connected. He looked at the plate of reheated spaghetti in his hands, dinner had been hours ago and a reset would come soon, but Papyrus would try and lift Sans’ spirits anyway.

  “I BROUGHT YOU SOMETHING TO EAT.”

  “’m not hungry, paps.”

  Even after all of this time, after all they had been through, he was still never sure what to say.  
  
  “IT MIGHT MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER.”

  Sans was quiet, steadying himself, plucking up the courage to speak.

  “you... you ever get the feeling you’re bein’ watched?”

  Papyrus resisted the urge to blurt out a ‘yes’, as it was clear Sans was setting himself up for something rather than it being a genuine question. It was not that he wouldn’t care, it was that Sans had a hard time being straightforward with anything.

  “HOW DO YOU MEAN?”

  “this whole thing with gaster really threw me. sometimes i strip, shower, no problem. other days... i dunno. it just feels weird. like he’s still lookin’.”

  “I UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU MEAN.”

The door was locked. Papyrus hadn’t checked, but he knew.

  “... i mean, from the time i got hit with the shrapnel, ‘till the time where everything kinda came out, that’s like, uh... a year and a half, give or take. he’s seen me... ‘take time to myself’, y’know? _ugh_.”

  Papyrus gently put the plate aside, bracing his hand against the door. Sans pressed his hand to it in return, in solidarity.

  “sorry, sorry, i know you hate it when i talk about this kind of stuff--”

  “THIS IS DIFFERENT. THIS IS NOT A CRUDE JOKE. THIS IS SERIOUS. PLEASE DON’T FEEL LIKE YOU CAN’T TALK TO ME.”

  “... thanks. i know i say that a lot, but i mean it. thank you, papyrus. you’re a good man.”

  “AS ARE YOU.”

  In an effort to get Sans to eat, he awkwardly bopped the plate of spaghetti against the door. Sans laughed.

  “the hell are you doin'?”

  “THERE IS PERFECTLY GOOD SPAGHETTI YOU AREN’T CRAMMING INTO YOUR GULLET AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO.”

  The lock of the door unclicked softly and Sans walked out, gently taking the plate.

  “aww, you made the ‘plain noodles and ketchup’ version. i thought you hated making that, a ‘mockery of fine cuisine’.”

  “I DO, BUT MY HATRED OF TERRIBLE PASTA-BASED ABOMINATIONS DOESN’T OUTWEIGH MY NEED TO SEE YOU HAPPY.”

  “yeah, that’d be im-pasta-ble.”

  “THAT’S IT, IT’S GOING IN THE TRASH.”

  They both laughed, grim but genuine.

 

* * *

 

  Weeks turned to months. Papyrus had taken to renting Le Morte D'Arthur from the library to pass the time and, slowly but surely, had worked his way through it. He was lounging in his bedroom in casual clothes, as armor was difficult to recline in. Sans had popped in for a couple of seconds, he had been itching for some company.

  “how’s the book goin’?”

  “I’M STRUGGLING, IF I’M BEING HONEST.”

  Sans walked over, plonked himself on the bed with little grace, and took the book he was offered. “with what, the king arthur stories? pfft, that stuff’s for little babybones, how tough can it be-- i have no idea what any of this is.”

  Papyrus allowed himself the opportunity to be a little smug. He had done this by himself, with effort, with perseverance. “IT WAS CLEARLY WRITTEN FOR SCHOLARLY BABYBONES, WHO WEAR TINY ADORABLE GLASSES, BECAUSE APPARENTLY THAT’S WHAT SMART PEOPLE WEAR.” Papyrus stopped for a moment, then scrunched up his features, cupping his cheek with his hand.

  “what’s up with you?”

  “I’M SORRY, THAT THOUGHT WAS VERY CUTE AND I NEEDED A MOMENT. TINY GLASSES! SO SMALL!”

  “’scholarly babybones’, you’re makin’ it sound like they’re wearing little graduation caps or something.”

  “SANS, STOP, YOU KNOW IF I THINK ABOUT CUTE THINGS FOR TOO LONG I CRY!”

  Sans did. That fact was hilarious to him. “teeny-tiny diplomas.”

  “ _OH GOD!_ ”

  “itty-bitty robes.”

  Papyrus was incoherent.

 

* * *

 

  “you sure about this?”

  “I AM.”

  The air was perfectly still around them both. It was the afternoon, in the time before Frisk would arrive. The trees stretched out above them as if grasping for the top of the mountain, as if they would pry it open with ancient, weathered fingers, that reached and reached and reached. Sans kicked a rock at his foot, sullenness staining his casual tone.

  “no matter what i say, you’re gonna go anyway, aren’t you?”

  Papyrus stood firm. “YES. I AM.”

  “i don’t understand it,” he mumbled.

  “I’M NOT TRYING TO MAKE YOU.”

  Sans crammed his hands into his pockets, rolling another rock under his sneaker. He pushed it forward, then kicked it into a tree five feet away, and it bounced off the bark. He couldn’t help but smirk a little. He had finally learned to compensate for his bad eye, it seemed. His aim had graduated from ‘terrible’ to ‘normal’. He sighed.

  “fine, fine. always were the stubborn one, weren’t you?”

  “SOMEONE HAS TO BE.”

  “if you need me, if anything happens, anything, just shout--”

  “I KNOW. I’LL BE FINE, SANS. I’M AN ADULT. I HAVE COMBAT TRAINING. IF ANYTHING, I’M MORE EQUIPPED TO DEAL WITH AN ISSUE THAN YOU ARE!”

  Sans chuckled darkly, not hurt in the slightest, holding his hands out to placate Papyrus’ growing guilt. “yeah. yeah, you’re right. sorry. sometimes i look at you and see that little kid that used to get pushed around, y’know?”

  “SO DO I. BUT I’M NOT.”

  Sans looked to the path Papyrus was about to walk, calming his nerves and reminding himself to stay put. “i think the whole ‘shooting up to seven foot’ thing really helped freak those kids out. nobody's gonna pick on the giant.”

  “OH, WITHOUT A DOUBT.”

  Sans sat down at his post, pulling out a car magazine he knew for a fact he would not read.

  “I WON’T BE LONG. I’M NOT SURE IF GASTER CAN TALK BACK, ANYWAY.”

  “be careful. he doesn’t have a soul. he can’t feel guilt. you won’t get closure.”

  “I KNOW.”

  “you got that note i gave you, the message?”

  Papyrus pulled out the thin slip of paper from his pocket to demonstrate before slipping it back in. “I DO.”

  “good luck.” 

  It was not difficult to find the tree, the one that had been burned into his mind, a location he could not dare to forget no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he wanted to. It was as white and stark as the snow, looming and silent and constant, something that had been there for what seemed like forever, like magic. The sight of it made Papyrus want to run, but he pressed on. He sat on his knees in front of it, on an especially dry, dusty part of the path.

  “HELLO, GASTER.”

  Silence. The gashes in the tree were thick, the wood inside an unnatural black, as if it had been charred internally. The metal was barely visible, if you were not looking. Tentatively, Papyrus poked at it with his finger, and it pulsed with an unnatural heartbeat. He quelled his shudders.

  “SO YOU’RE, UM, PROBABLY WONDERING WHY I’M HERE. AND SCREAMING AT ME. AND SHOUTING INSULTS, PROBABLY. VERY PERSONAL ONES. I DON'T THINK YOU CAN SPEAK, BUT...”

  There was more quiet, that slipped in him and filled every crevice.

  “BUT I’M HERE FOR MY SAKE, BECAUSE I THINK I HAVE EARNED THE RIGHT TO BE A LITTLE SELFISH REGARDING YOUR...” He thought of a word. “ _CONDUCT_.”

  He took a long, deep drink from the bottle of water he had kept tucked away, sighing as it hit the back of his skull and was taken into him. That was better.

  “I FORGIVE YOU.”

  He coughed, as if he did not believe he had just said that.

  “NOT IN THE ‘EVERYTHING IS ALRIGHT’, SENSE, BECAUSE IT ISN’T. YOU ARE TERRIBLE. YOU ARE IRREDEEMABLE. YOU DO NOT HAVE A SOUL TO SAVE. IT'S FOR ME. SANS TOLD ME ABOUT YOU, ABOUT WHAT YOU USED TO BE LIKE, WHEN YOU HAD A SOUL, AND... I THINK, PERHAPS THE OLD YOU AND I COULD HAVE BEEN FRIENDS. IT IS AN ODD THING TO THINK ABOUT, BUT I MEAN IT. WHAT YOU ARE NOW IS NOT WHAT YOU SET OUT TO BE, IS IT?”

  The wind rustled through the trees and tickled him, whistling through the gaps in his body.

  “YOU WALKED INTO THE CORE TO...” He cleared his throat. “TO COMMIT SUICIDE. BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T HAVE ENOUGH MAGIC. BUT I DON’T THINK YOU EVER PLANNED ON ANY OF THIS HAPPENING. SOMETHING THAT _LOOKED_ LIKE YOU AND HAS YOUR MEMORIES WAS RUNNING AROUND DOING TERRIBLE THINGS LIKE SOME KIND OF... SADISTIC HERMIT CRAB? AND I AM NOT SURE IF I CAN STAY ANGRY AT SOMEONE THAT DID NOT INTEND TO... INTEND TO BE LIKE THAT. I WILL HATE YOUR REMNANTS, YOUR _HUSK_ , THE THING THAT TORMENTED US UNTIL THE DAY I DIE. BUT I WILL NOT HATE YOU, THE PERSON.” He laughed humorlessly, high and breathy. “SANS SAYS I’M CRAZY, WHICH IS A FAIR STATEMENT, BECAUSE I’M OUT IN THE WOODS TALKING TO A TREE. HE’S... NOT AS FORGIVING. THAT IS FINE. I COMPLETELY UNDERSTAND. I DID NOT ASK HIM TO COME HERE WITH ME, I DOUBT HE EVER WOULD.”

  Papyrus braced himself for a barrage of insults. They did not come.

  “I THOUGHT ABOUT MAKING YOU SOMETHING TO EAT, LIKE A PEACE OFFERING, BUT THEN I REMEMBERED YOU’RE A TREE. YOU EAT SUNLIGHT, AND WATER, I THINK. AND DIRT. BUT DIRT IS A TERRIBLE PEACE OFFERING, SO I DECIDED AGAINST IT.” Papyrus took a moment to compose himself, to align his train of thought, but could feel it drift away until he was speaking without thinking. “... NOBODY TELLS YOU HOW MANY THINGS ARE INSIDE A HUMAN. HOW THEIR MUSCLES FEEL LIKE STRING WHEN THEY UNFURL IN YOUR PALM...” He caught himself, choking back tears he did not notice had developed. He did so instantly, having mastered the manoeuvre. “... WOWIE, BOY, THAT WAS DEPRESSING, HUH. THAT ISN’T WHAT I CAME HERE TO TALK ABOUT, BECAUSE I ALWAYS GET SO _ANGRY AT MYSELF WHEN I_ \--”

  He stopped, and took a deep breath, taking the lull to pull out the piece of paper Sans had given him. He had expected an essay of some kind.

  “SANS WROTE A MESSAGE FOR ME TO PASS ON. AHEM. ‘I HOPE YOU ROT IN HELL YOU CUN-- _WHOA!_ ” He cringed, then hastily put the paper away. He hated that word, but he would not scold Sans for using it. “WOW, THAT IS A STRONG TERM, HE IS REALLY NOT HAPPY WITH YOU. THE SWEAR JAR IS COMING BACK AFTER THAT ONE, GOOD GRIEF.”

  Papyrus stood up, looking at the other trees around them, alive and pleasant, smelling sweet and earthy.

  “I’M NOT SURE IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, OR IF YOU’RE SORT OF... DEAD, I GUESS. BUT NOT, LIKE, DEAD-DEAD, WEIRD-MAGIC-DEAD. I HOPE YOU FIND PEACE, AT LEAST. I DON’T WANT YOU TO SUFFER. GOODBYE, GASTER.” He began to walk away, slowly, then quicker, having felt a grand weight be lifted off of him. He heard something faint and rasping, that could be mistaken for the wind, run through the trees.

  “Goodbye, Papyrus. I love you.”

  “OF COURSE YOU DO,” he laughed, not stopping. “I’M AMAZING.”

 

* * *

 

  Months rolled into each other.

  And somehow.

  Through dogged perseverance.

  And unflappable determination.

  Frisk, backed with their friends, found out there was one more person to save. Someone they did not know, yet did, like a brother.

  And they _did it_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The brothers settle back into domestic life, try to come to terms with what has happened, and then Frisk pulls off the stunt of the century. One chapter left! ^-^


	45. Hope

 

  “just give up. we did.”

  “I DON’T DESERVE TO LIVE.”

 

* * *

 

  “nah, we’re rootin’ for ya, kid.”

  “WAIT A MINUTE, WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT? IF A COOL PERSON LIKE YOU IS MY FRIEND, THEN I MUST BE COOL TOO!”

 

* * *

 

  
  It had happened. The impossible, the unbelievable, unattainable goal, that had loomed over them like a great cloud, persistent and hanging, had been reached. The barrier was broken. The Monsters, after years of captivity, entire generations who had been born, lived and died in the mountain, were set free at the behest of an exceptionally determined child. Their prince was gone. Their monarchy in tatters. Their population, dwindled. Their hope, almost, almost extinguished. But it was over. And they were free. And they had no idea what to do with themselves. But it was a wonderful kind of indecision.

  Everyone returned home to pack their things before the exodus. To prepare. To make their arrangements.

  “SANS, YOU CAN’T JUST TAKE ONE CHANGE OF CLOTHES AND A BOTTLE OF KETCHUP. WE ARE MOVING, THIS IS NOT A DELIGHTFUL JAUNT WE CAN JUST RETURN FROM!”

  “if i skip does that make it a ‘delightful jaunt’?”

  “NO! WELL, YES, BUT--”

  “then it’ll be fine.”

  Papyrus sighed for effect, too giddy to be truly upset. “DO YOU JUST WANT TO AVOID PACKING? ARE YOU THAT LAZY?”

  “maybe.”

  “JUST GO GET SOME CLOTHES AND CRAM THEM IN MY BAG, I DON’T KNOW WHEN WE’LL NEXT GET THE CHANCE TO SHOWER BUT I DON’T WANT TO BE STUCK WITH YOU WHEN YOU SMELL LIKE SOCKS.”

  “i don’t think you have room.”

  “WHY NOT?”

  “the official statement is ‘pack what you need’. you don’t need the action figures to live.”

  Papyrus gasped in indignation, looking to the plastic bag filled with figures at his feet, a suitcase filled with clothes to his side and another bag packed with general toiletries to his right, of soaps and deodorants and wet-wipes, things that would be useful. Sans was grasping a blue plastic bag filled with holes, with a few pairs of boxers, shirts and another pair of sweatpants.

  “THESE WERE EXPENSIVE!”

  “i know. but you can’t eat them.”

  “OH, OUT OF ALL THE TIMES TO BE A RESPONSIBLE ADULT WHY DID YOU HAVE TO PICK NOW?”

  Sans shrugged, the reality of the situation having not quite set in yet. “you can’t carry all that stuff anyway, not with your arm.”

  Papyrus let himself be a little immature and let out a small whine that didn’t fit with the sturdier figure he now cut, his eyes darker than they used to be. “CAN’T YOU CARRY A BAG?”

  “i’m on tent-luggin’ duty, it’s not as i’m not gonna be carrying anything. we’ll probably be coming back at some point, anyway.”

  Papyrus grumbled, setting the bag down and rooting through, swooping his scarf out of the way so it did not hang down and catch on his bed.

  “i told you, you can’t--”

  “I’M JUST TAKING THE ONE, IT WILL FIT IN MY LUGGAGE.”

  “which one?”

  “TAKE A WILD GUESS.”

  Papyrus slipped the robot figurine into the suitcase before standing up and taking a deep breath. They both looked at each other, completely unable to articulate what they were both feeling. It had been months. It may have been years. All they knew was that it had felt like an exceptionally long time. Sans plodded to his room, picked up fistfuls of clothes off of the floor and returned, stuffing them into Papyrus’ immaculately packed luggage.

  “i... almost don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN.”

  Sans ran his finger along the outer rim of his broken eye, the very faint spat of pain keeping him grounded. “it’s like, if we talk about it, then a reset will happen and undo all the wacky shit. i mean, the prince turned into a flower. what the hell is up with that?”

  Papyrus thought to the little golden flower that would show up occasionally to say sweet things and reassure him. He had not seen it for a very, very long time. He declined to mention it.

  “IT IS PRETTY STRANGE, I WILL ADMIT.”

  They stood in silence, taking in the atmosphere of their house in one great big breath, casting off their home like a padded shackle. They would miss it. They had made their life here.

  “WE’RE GOING TO SEE THE SURFACE.”

  Papyrus, for the first time in his life, heard Sans let out a little trill of delight before he steadied himself, lapsing back into his cool demeanor.

  “DID... DID YOU JUST DO A LITTLE CHIRP?”

  “no.”

  “YOU DID! GOOD GOD, THAT WAS ADORABLE! DO IT AGAIN.”

  “ _no._ ”

  “YOU’RE LIKE A SMALL, CHUBBY BIRD! YOU’RE A TINY SQUEAKING BIRD-SKELETON!”

  “oh my god, my dignity’s hurtin’.”

  Papyrus would have clapped if he had the capacity, as the novelty inspired great, childlike glee in him that made him giggle. “FRISK IS GOING TO LOVE THIS!”

Sans was hoisting the folded-up tent over his shoulder, plastic bag hooked onto his wrist, the little pride he had smarting. “oh, it’s hurtin’ _bad_.”

  “I’M GOING TO TREASURE THIS MOMENT FOREVER!”

  “i’m going now.”

  “I MAKE THAT NOISE ALL THE TIME, IT’S FINE! I DIDN’T KNOW YOU COULD-- HEY, COME BACK!”

  “c’mon, hurry up.”

  “NO! I HAVE WAITED A VERY LONG TIME FOR THIS AND I AM GOING TO SAVOR THE MOMENT!”

  “ya mind savoring it a little quicker? i’m gettin’ antsy, i don’t wanna get weepy when i say goodbye to this place.”

  Papyrus had made his way downstairs slowly, taking note of every single creak of wood under his foot, feeling the wall with his palm as he descended, gorging on the atmosphere, the golden dust that hung in the air like fine, silken thread suspended from the ceiling; his place, his sanctuary, his home, his refuge. Sans was hovering at the door to the house, clicking off the light-switch, the only source of illumination being the refracted sunlight from the perfect snow outside.  
  
  “you ready?”

  “NO,” Papyrus admitted, welling up.

  “yeah, me neither. lets go.”

  Papyrus let the bag drop to his feet as he stepped outside into the still air, before pulling out his key and locking the door behind him with a loud clack that resonated and filled the entire space, as their was no living noise to swallow it.

  “UNDYNE IS MEETING US AT THE BARRIER, I THINK SHE’S HAVING A MOMENT WITH ALPHYS. FRISK IS THERE WITH THEM, I BELIEVE.”

  “aww.”

  “I KNOW, THEY’RE PRETTY CUTE TOGETHER.”

  With a huff, voice wavering, Sans motioned for Papyrus to get moving. They began walking up the path, the town still lowly humming with activity as people packed up their homes, their lives, their entire existences encapsulated in cardboard boxes filled with knick-knacks. With the soft creak of ice underneath their plodding feet, they advanced towards their future. Papyrus heard Sans let out a very low, very quiet, sniffle, and cover it with the noise of the tent on his shoulder.

  “I HAVE A PLAN.”

  “oh?”

  “SO I’M GOING TO LOOK OUT OVER THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN, AND CRY ONE OF THOSE SINGLE TEARS THAT COOL PEOPLE DO IN THOSE MOVIES. YOU KNOW THE SORT.”

  “the ‘hero’s mentor has just been shot in front of him, so he swears revenge’ kind of cryin’, instead of ‘funeral crying’?”

  “THE VERY SAME. IT’S POISED. IT WILL MAKE ME LOOK COOL.”

  “pap, i don’t think anybody is gonna be judging you on how cool you look when we get out there.”

  “I WILL.”

  Sans chuckled, a noise that came out bubbling and wet, a preclusion to a good old fashioned sob. “hey, whatever makes you happy.”

  “ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

  “yeah, yeah, i’m fine. i’m sweatin’ from my eyes, is all. it’s really gross, you probably don’t want to look.”

  Papyrus would have given him a pat on the shoulder, but could not, due to the weight he was carrying. He defaulted to supportive silence.

  “but, it’s like, y’know. happy. a good kind of cryin’.”

  “I THOUGHT YOU SAID IT WAS EYE-SWEAT.”

  “some of it might be, i do sweat a lot.”

  “YOU ARE THE WORST. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH.”

  Sans actually did let out a little sob that time.

 

* * *

  
  
  The first thing you notice about the outside is, after a life confined to an enclosed space, it is very, very large. In fact, it would be fair to say that world suddenly becomes so large it’s almost impossible to imagine, the space you had once inhabited multiplied one million times over, a perfect loop replacing the high stone walls. The sky stretched up and over them, with no roof, no restrictions, seemingly infinite, exquisite blue at the edges, with vibrant pinks and reds carved into its bulk. The sun sat perfectly in the sky, the clouds wrapping over it as if it were a sweet, plump fruit suspended by vines, that beat down upon them all, every Monster frozen in awed silence, Frisk beaming at the front of them all.

  Then the cheers started.

  Sans choked. “how’s... how’s that single tear workin’ out for you?”

  “FINE,” Papyrus wept, smatterings of moisture falling from his face, into his open mouth, great gasps leaping from his ribs in undignified wheezes, “IT’S G-GOING GREAT,” he hiccuped, snot and tears caking his face.

  “you look really dignified.”

  “I T-TRY.”

  The cliff-side was huge, a flat, sandy plane that led to more paths that circled the outside of the mountain, a makeshift camp-site that would do for a night before they contacted Human civilization and began their new lives. But that night was for them, and them alone, and they would spend it how they wished and with who they wished, the sun settling low on the horizon, a species-wide party breaking out. Papyrus was staring at the orb.

  “SANS. SANS, MY EYES FEEL FUNNY.”

  “yeah, you aren’t meant to look at it.”

  “BUT IT’S HUGE! AND OVER THERE! AND YELLOW! HOW COULD I NOT?”

  There was a city on the horizon, tall, unbelievably tall buildings that rose out of the earth like pillars that would guide them, grey in the distance.

  “how far away is that? my depth perception’s all fucked up.”

  “NOT FAR. WE CAN WALK IT IN THE MORNING.”

  “sweet. by ‘walk it’ do you mean ‘carry sans’?”

  “NO.”

  “worth a shot.”

  Papyrus brought his hand to his forehead to shield himself from the sun, (a huge ball of fire! In the sky! How marvelous!), spotting Undyne and Alphys near the cliffs edge, in a ramshackle tent Alphys had probably dug up from her basement, peppered with holes. To their left, twenty feet away, Asgore was overlooking the cliff, stoic, shoulders slumped in relief, trident in hand. Toriel was speaking to him, and though Papyrus did not know what they were saying he knew it was terse, and decided it was not appropriate to snoop, so he cast his gaze to the rest of the flat portion even as Sans watched them both. To the right of Undyne’s tent was a lavish purple one, and he did not need to guess its owner as Mettaton was peeping out a fabulous gam from the slit of its frame just in case anybody forgot who he was. Burgerpants was fanning it with a banana leaf, and from the look in his eyes was not happy about it.

  Good God, that was quite the gam.

  “pap, you’re starin’.”

  “NO I’M NOT! YOU’RE STARING!”

  “you’re also droolin’ a little.”

  Papyrus hurriedly wiped his mouth, before motioning to the bags around them, the rolled up tent at their feet. “WE SHOULD BUILD IT AND GET A FIRE GOING.”

  “why would we set fire to our tent? that’s counterproductive, papyrus.”

  Papyrus shot him a glance, and Sans snickered.

 

* * *

 

  The fire was roaring, and they had commandeered some marshmallows from Alphys, who had offered them a handful in a show of friendship. She and Sans exchanged the standard ‘I know you, but we aren’t quite close enough to be friends’ nod, and she and Papyrus made small talk. He mentioned her DVD, the one Undyne had given him, Bible Black, and she retreated to her tent immediately, a flurry of stutters. He had only wanted to give her it back. Sans had his marshmallow suspended over the fire with his magic, holding his hand out. Papyrus had a pointy stick, as he had tried that method and lost two perfectly good marshmallows to the blaze. Frisk would be with them soon. He knew it. They were probably talking to Asgore, conducting some very important, very official Human-Monster business, and he didn’t want to intrude. So they both sat, bathed in the crackling light of the fire, made of dry moss and a textbook Sans had brought along as kindling, toasting their mallows, contented.

  “I FEEL LIKE WE SHOULD HAVE LEARNED SOME KIND OF LESSON FROM THIS.”

  Sans dipped his body to the side to look at Papyrus over the fire, brow quirked, needing to speak loudly over the constant low murmur of the Monsters around them. “don’t get drunk and blab or it’ll lead to the downfall of everything you love?”

  “YES. WAIT, NO. THAT’S A TERRIBLE MORAL. LETS NOT GO WITH THAT ONE.”

  Sans thought for a moment. “always season your pasta?”

  “THAT’S NOT A LESSON.”

  “don’t take too many breaks or your boss’ll come back from the dead to pester your brother in an infinite, hellish loop?”

  “DID YOU REALLY TAKE THAT MANY?”

  “yeah. you surprised?”

  “NO.”

  “don’t go cramming random objects into yourself?”

  “YOU KNOW WHAT? YOU KNOW WHAT. SURE. WHY NOT. DON’T JAM PIECES OF METAL INTO YOUR INJURIES. YOU MIGHT GET TETANUS. OR HAUNTED BY A SCIENTIST.”

  “we’re so good at this.”

  “I KNOW. THAT LESSON IS ABSOLUTELY THE ONLY THING WE SHOULD TAKE AWAY FROM THIS.”

  “power of love? determination? fuck ‘em.”

  Papyrus was laughing, delighting in the fact that he could finally laugh about all of this. “YEAH! THOSE THINGS TOTALLY WEREN’T THE ONLY REASON I WENT ON.”

  “nope.”

  Sans brought the mallow to his mouth, blowing on it before skewering it on a jagged spear of a tooth, sucking little pieces off.

  “WHY DO YOU EAT IT LIKE THAT.”

  “i dunno,” he replied in perfect clarity. “just feels right.”

  Papyrus brought his stick out of the fire, the black plumes of smoke vibrant against the burgundy of the sky, and gingerly bit off a piece. The air was so fresh up here, it felt like he could fill his ribs one million times over.

  “i got talkin’ to toriel--”

  “YOU MEAN THE QUEEN?”

  “yes.”

  “THE QUEEN OF ALL MONSTERS?”

  “that one, yeah.”

  “TORIEL DREEMUR, THE MISSING MONARCH, HER MAJESTY HERSELF.”

  “yep.”

  “SORRY, I JUST WANTED TO CLARIFY.”

  “yeah.” Sans dipped his head awkwardly, leaning forward on the rock he was perched on, looking a little to the side. “anyway, she asked me out.”

  Papyrus spluttered, so shocked that his body didn’t consciously absorb the mallow as he chewed, and it fell out of his with a ‘splat’. “OH MY GOD, IF YOU SAID YES THAT WOULD MAKE YOU A PRINCE, I THINK? PRINCE SANS. PRINCE SANS, THE HOTDOG MAN.”

  Sans held his hands up. “gettin’ ahead of yourself, i said no.”

  “I KNOW YOU WOULD HAVE, I WAS JUST TEASING YOU. HOW DID SHE TAKE IT?”

  He smiled and it was sincere, reaching and pulsing in his eyes, the fire casting a soft glow against the cracks in his left socket. “really well. i think she kinda picked up that vibe from me anyway, just kinda wanted to confirm it, i guess. i’m not really down for the whole ‘relationship’ thing, but she’s a real cool chick, you’d like her. it’s kinda weird to think i’ve been telling dick jokes to the queen.”

  Papyrus pinched his nose. “OH GOD.”

  “and she was tellin’ ‘em back. rattlin’ them off. real wicked sense of humor. she was throwin’ out nouns i didn’t even know could be used as a euphemism. it’s all in the tone. ‘hey doc, there’s somethin’ wrong with my _‘antique crystal vas_ e’, mind checking it out?’.”

  “I WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT SPENDING TIME WITH THE QUEEN WOULD IMPROVE YOUR SENSE OF HUMOR RATHER THAN MAKE IT WORSE.”

  “’hey ladies, wanna see my _folding travel table_ ’.”

  “PLEASE STOP.”

  “’stand back folks, i’m whippin’ out the _turgid magic baton_ ’.”

  Papyrus groaned and Undyne shot him a worried look from outside her tent, fifteen feet away, but resumed her conversation with Alphys when it became apparent it was Sans being Sans. “THIS IS THE WORST CONVERSATION I HAVE EVER BEEN A PART OF. EVER. CONGRATULATIONS SANS, YOU’RE HERE FOR A MOMENTOUS OCCASION. THIS IS THE LOW POINT IN MY LIFE.”

  “we can always go lower.”

  “PLEASE DO NOT TAKE THIS AS AN OPPORTUNITY TO USE THE PHRASE ‘TURGID MAGIC BATON’ AGAIN. IT MAKES ME WANT TO RETREAT BACK INTO THE MOUNTAIN AND LIVE LIKE A NUN. IT’S HIDEOUS.”

  “blame toriel. speakin’ of which, i’ll be right back. haven’t really talked to her since asgore pulled her aside, y’know?” He stood up, popping his spine, and set off to see her, her figure barely visible in the crowd.

  “TELL HER I SAID HELLO!”

  “will do.”

  Sans came back five minutes later in tears, shaking with laughter, snorting.  
  
  “hold on, hold on, she had another one.”

  “IS THIS HIGH TREASON? IT FEELS LIKE HIGH TREASON.”

  “ _the marrow canon_.”

  “ _SANS, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DON’T RUIN THIS DAY FOR ME_.”

  Papyrus prepared himself for a rant, poking at the dying embers of their fire, encircled by hundreds of other flames and hundreds of other tents, but was cut off as he looked at Sans’ face, who was staring at the sky, enraptured. The entire camp was quiet, it was as if nobody was there as even the wind was still. Sans looked up at the infinite peering blackness that seemed to peep back at him through a soft blanket made up of trillions upon trillions of lights and felt his breath leave him with no clouds to obscure the sight, like splattering of paint against an astonishing canvas, a sight he never, ever thought he would see. He could only gasp out, “ _holy shit_.”

  Papyrus was tending to their fire, grumbling. “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU SWEAR SO MUCH. IT’S THE MARK OF A POOR VOCABULARY-- _HOLY SHIT!_ ”

  Papyrus dropped his stick and the entirety of Monster-kind was swept with a sublime, silent awe. Some cheered. Some cried. Some simply kept quiet. Thousands of eyes gazed up and it appeared as if an incomprehensible number looked back. Sans felt as if he would drop straight off of the Earth, his breath difficult to catch. He felt Frisk’s presence, as they had walked up to him through the crowd, felt their small hand on his shoulder as he finally broke down and wept.

  “you pulled it off. you actually pulled it off. i’m so proud of you, kid. i can’t believe it.”

  “I CAN.”

 

* * *

 

 

  Everyone was gathered around Undyne’s larger campfire. Asgore and Toriel had brokered an uneasy civility. Undyne and Alphys were enthusing about their new lives. Frisk, at that point in time, was talking to Asgore, low and solemn. Papyrus did not listen in. Far from them, just enough to be caught in the light of the campfire, but not near enough to be heard, Mettaton was speaking with Napstablook, whose body shimmered in the night.

  Undyne paused, gave Alphys a smooch, then stood up, plonking herself down by Papyrus.

  “So how’re you?”

  “I HAVE NEVER BEEN BETTER. LOOK! STARS! THEY’RE AMAZING!”

  She gazed up herself, puffing out in agreement before dragging her eyes back to Papyrus, her slit pupil faintly glowing against the light.

  “Hey, Papyrus, I’ve been thinkin’... The Guard isn’t gonna be the same beast anymore. We don’t need to prepare for war. We don’t need to fight, or anythin’. I’m kinda out of a job. But here’s the thing, what do kings and queens need? Security, bodyguards, all that good stuff. So I was thinkin’, because it ain’t so combat intensive, and it won’t involve you gettin’ hurt... You want in? We need somebody to organize the paperwork. You can be a Royal Guard.”

  Papyrus gasped, clacking the fingers on his hand together as he plucked up his courage. “THAT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME, UNDYNE. I MEAN IT. IT DOES. BUT I’M GOING TO HAVE TO DECLINE.”

  She blinked. “Wait, wait, really?”

  “I DON’T THINK I’M...” He thought to Frisk, to their dead, prone body, knowing that his next sentence would be a lie as he was technically the one of greatest Guards who had ever lived. “CUT OUT FOR THE GUARD. IT’S NOT FOR ME.”

  Undyne’s expression changed for a moment into something Papyrus couldn’t quite pin down, but it hadn’t been the frustration he was expecting. If anything it had looked like joy, but that would have been absurd because Undyne had been training him every day.

  “I WAS THINKING ABOUT TAKING UP COOKING. SERIOUSLY, I MEAN. ONCE I FIGURE OUT WHAT AN ITALY IS THEN MASTERING THE CUISINE SHOULD BE A BREEZE!”

  “It’s a place, ya goober!”

  “OH, I THOUGHT IT WAS A PERSON I NEEDED TO TRACK DOWN TO LEARN THEIR ANCIENT COOKING TECHNIQUES. THAT MAKES THINGS A LOT EASIER. I MIGHT OPEN UP A RESTAURANT,” he added absentmindedly.

  She paused, breathing heavily, and Papyrus prepared himself for an outburst, steeling himself.

  “ _I’m so proud of you, ya big skeleton! Bring it in!_ ”

  He furrowed his brows, confused, before her crushing strength wrapped around his ribs, shifting them even in his armor. He hugged her back as best he could, laughing, the force of her hug scooting his ass across the boulder he was perched on. “I’M SO RELIEVED, I THOUGHT YOU WOULD BE FURIOUS!”

  “How can I be furious? You wanna be a chef, oh my God, I’m so happy!”

  Sans sat up from his position in the dirt, throwing him a smile before lying down again, staring at the sky.

  “This day could not be goin’ any better!” She enthused. “We’re out on the surface, you’re followin’ your passions, and I landed a--” She let her voice boom out so Alphys could hear, who responded with a coy laugh. “ _Hot new girlfriend who is really great!_ I just wish I had been honest with her before, y’know? Save so much hassle!”

  Papyrus remembered his dating book, and quoted chapter four with all the sage wisdom he could muster for somebody that had never went further than hand holding. “HONEST COMMUNICATION IS THE KEY IN STARTING, AND MAINTAINING, RELATIONSHIPS! TRUST ME, I READ IT IN A BOOK! ONE I PAID MONEY FOR AND EVERYTHING!”

  Undyne nodded in agreement, before getting that look on her face, the one that would flash across her maw before she came up with an idea, or suplexed his furniture, all teeth and narrow, sharp angles, her talons gleaming and her gills flaring.

  “Hey, Papyrus... You like the robot, right? Mettaton?”

  Papyrus felt his smile lock, but his eyes squashed in worry. “... YES... WHY?”

  “So you’re gonna be _real_ pissed off at me for this one, but! You gotta trust me. Open and honest communication, like you said. This’ll pay off!”

  Papyrus scratched the nape of his neck. “I’M GOING TO BE HONEST, I LOVE HIS SHOW, MUSIC AND WATERMELON-CRUSHING HYPER-THIGHS, BUT I ACTUALLY DON’T KNOW HIM, NOT REALLY! I’D LIKE TO SPEAK TO HIM BEFORE I TRY ANYTHING, I’M A LITTLE OLD FASHIONED--”

  Undyne ignored him, leaping to her feet with a roar that made Papyrus know she had settled on a plan. “Hey, Asgore! Can you do me a solid and cover Frisk’s--”

  Asgore had already covered their ears, his face already cringing in preparation, everyone except for Mettaton and Napstablook staring at the noise much to Papyrus’ mortification. "You are not going to want to hear this one, child," he huffed softly, addressing the new ambassador.

  “Yeah, thanks!”  
  
  She whistled loudly, fingers crammed in her mouth, sharp teeth grazing her skin, her ear fins wriggling from the exertion.

  “Hey! Mettaton!”

  He looked around, eyebrows cocked, arms crossed in haughty indignation as he was clearly in the middle of a conversation. He snapped his fingers to prompt Burgerpants to fan faster, and he begrudgingly obliged.

  “Yeah, I’m lookin’ at you, robot! Y’see this dork here? He’s got one of those figurines, right, real expensive--”

  Papyrus leapt to his feet, scrambling to Undyne and desperately clutching her by the shoulder. “UNDYNE, IF YOU’RE DOING WHAT I THINK YOU’RE DOING--”

  “And every once in a while--”

  He began shaking her, thrashing her back and forth. “ _I TOLD YOU THIS IN TRUTH OR DARE, UNDYNE, YOU’RE UNDERMINING THE SANCTITY OF THE GAME!_ ”

  “He--”

  Papyrus crammed his scarf to his face. If it were possible to explode in a shower of embarrassment, he would have, five times over. “ **WHY DOES EVERYONE SEEM TO KNOW ABOUT THIS?** ”

  “He totally jerks off to it! Don’t take a blacklight into his room, it’ll look like a winter wonderland during a sweet rave, purple and white everywhere! I don’t wanna sit down in there in case I get pregnant! He’s super into you, dude, you should totally jump his bones!”

  Mettaton looked back, stunned, light bouncing off his chassis. Napstablook let out a soft ‘oh no’ before vanishing.

  The group was deathly quiet save for Sans, who had his hand pinched to his nose. “didn’t want to hear that, undyne. i really, _really_ didn’t.”

  “ ** _HELL IS REAL AND I AM IN IT_** ,” Papyrus shrieked, stomping his foot, every part of him on fire, abashed. “ ** _I’M GOING BACK INTO THE MOUNTAIN. UNDYNE, WHY WOULD--_** ”

  “Dude,” she said softly, poking him with her elbow. “Look.”

  Mettaton was looking him up and down, top to bottom, before his features bottomed out into a lascivious smile, making a little ‘call me’ gesture with his hands.

  “... OH.”

  “Ey? I am good or what?”

  “I’M STILL MAD,” he mumbled, smiling despite himself.

 

* * *

 

  The fire had died out, the low embers copper against the lightening sky. Papyrus was still up, knees tucked into himself as he sat. Sans was in the tent, but the constant shifting and repositioning showed that he, too, could not sleep. Papyrus heard a weary sigh before Sans padded out to join him, wearing his tracksuit pants, feeling the cool air on his ribs.

  “CAN YOU NOT SLEEP?”

  “yeah. weird, right?”

  Sans plonked himself down, stretching, lying back to admire the stars once more before they would be engulfed by the blue sky.

  “it’s amazing, huh?”

  “IT IS. I’M STILL IN SHOCK.”

  “i gave frisk my sleepin’ bag, so i’ve just been living it up on the ground. my back was starting to really ache.”

  Papyrus went quiet. “... SANS?”

  “yeah, papyrus?”

  “IS IT REALLY OVER?”

  Sans looked over to the horizon, an entire world stretched out before them both, with stars and clouds and opportunities they had only dreamed of, miles upon miles upon miles. “yeah. i think it is. we’re out, home free. the kid did it. gaster’s gone. we’re still here. frisk is movin' in with tori. it's all... it's all kinda workin' out! i'm not used to this.”

  Papyrus chuckled before it rose in pitch, in tone, to a wheeze of relief. “GOOD. I KNEW WE COULD DO IT,” he lied. “I WASN’T WORRIED AT ALL.”

  Sans wiped his eyes. “love you, pap.”

  “LOVE YOU, SANS.”

  They hugged.

 

* * *

 

  There was a large, static, living tree in Snowdin, that was unnatural in its existence and towering in its stature, its interiors an impossible pitch black, and it could not feel anything, could not move, and eventually, eventually, could not think.

  It was hellish.

  And yet.

  There was an odd kind of peace in it.

 

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that’s that! The main story is complete and everybody’s living it up on the surface. Yay! Thank you so much for your support, I appreciate your comments and input so, so much, and I think I will pursue writing seriously now! There will be stories and oneshots following on directly from this that will be posted in series, so subscribe to that if you want to see more! (I would not recommend directly subscribing to my account unless you want to see porn. Speaking of which, if you’re over 18, you can follow my tumblr, which is under the same name as this account, but again, porn.) Husk is still ongoing, and if you have any suggestions for stories, throw them out there, the platform is open! Thank you again! If you have any questions, feel free to ask! [Here is my favorite version of Bonetrousle to play us out!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GIuBpl7k_eU)


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